the nameless stranger
mysticism, Morocco + a very special pair of pants!
Hello, dear Bicycle Boys! It is Friday, yet again, and I am happy to meet you here, in this little slice of the internet. Thank you for following along and for your continued support. As always, there’s an audio version at the top <3
“So, you’re a mystic, then?” the stranger asks.
The words take the form of a question but land more like an assertion.
It’s January of 2020. I’m sipping mint tea at a cafe in Tangier, Morocco, sitting on a chair turned outwards to face the square.
The man sitting next to me is wearing zip-off hiking shorts and a worn-in button-up shirt. I can’t place his age. He smells slightly more than the average backpacker. I notice him sketching, and he notices me writing. He asks about it, and I ask about his sketches. He tells me something about the archeological details of Northern Morocco and its network of caves.
He asks if he can draw me. And then, he asks why I came here. Here, to this cafe, and here, to this country.
I list off the basic things — that I love the textile work and handicrafts and the food here sits well in my stomach.
“But what I’m really interested in… are devotional cultures. I’m curious about cultures of covered skin, I’m fascinated by the language of Arabic, and I want to know more about Islam.”
“Do you follow a religion?” He asks, looking between me and his page.
“Well, no.. but I feel something, something is there? I can’t place it.
The first morning I woke up in Marrakech, almost two months ago, I heard the morning prayers broadcasted throughout the Medina. They brought me out of a dream. I was first afraid — was there some kind of emergency? And then, I realized. And eventually, I came to rely on it, to take refuge in that rhythm of the sounds. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that first morning.”
I was right — I have yet to forget that moment.
“And, then,” I go on, “I think there is something magical about this place, this country, don’t you agree? Something mysterious, that allows an idea to take form in the physical world almost instantly?”
The man smiles. And so, marks me with mysticism.
But I wondered then, and have wondered since; what is the power in naming these things?
The moment we attach a word to something — be it a relationship, an experience, a feeling, or even a meal — that thing is changed. Sometimes, seemingly for the better, and other times not. Naming holds the power to drain the vitality out of some moments and generate such sublime satisfaction in others.
When the man asked if I was a mystic, I didn’t actually know the exact meaning of the term. And I didn’t feel the urge to look it up that day, or in the months and years that would follow.
But the word, and the archetype I’ve come to find it encapsulates, has continued to reappear and follow me around ever since. I find it on the backs of books by the passed-on poets I’d come to love, written into their bios. Mysticism arises in the therapy room. In the classroom. In novels. In relationships. Again again again. The mystic appears in a slightly new form but all the while retained.
On Sunday, I enrolled in a course on mysticism by one of my favorite teachers, Kim Krans. I didn’t account well for the time difference between New York and Norway and I sat awake until 3 am, looking at my laptop and the insides of my eyelids, learning the mind, matter, and archetype of the mystic.
The teachings were potent and many. And for me, necessary.
Kim spoke directly to this idea of naming, and our urge to identify and seek instant clarification on an experience. While this can be helpful, the experience of sitting inside the unknown can be equally rich and, well, mystifying.
An image arose at one point during the 6 hours in meditation. I wanted so so badly to consult the sacred oracle — Google — rather than just allow the image, the idea, the archetype to live in my body, my mind. Silently, taking shape on its own.
This feeling also occurred with the badger I kept seeing a few weeks back. I was elated and full of wonder after our meetings. What could it mean? What do badgers do? Who are badgers? I would rush home to Google all about him. While I was happy to learn about his habitat and his facts, it shifted some of the magic of the experience to read that “it is not particularly uncommon to run into a Badger in parking lots, in many regions around Norway”. But just because it is not uncommon, the magic does not wholly evaporate. It just changes form.
I have come to believe that the mystic is an archetype that speaks to us all through art, nature, and other people. It was there, that day in the square. The mystic was there, in the theatre we found ourselves later at, Cinema Rif, and in the books we read in the lobby and the drinks we sipped, waiting for the show to begin. It was there in the man’s pen as he sketched caves and faces. It lives in the caves and the faces themselves. The mystic exists in the badger and me and the lamppost illuminating the path between us.
And yet, while I have these suspicions of the mystic, I can not know for sure.
Kim spoke of two things in particular that debilitate the mystic within us all — one, a flippantly spoken “yeah, I know that” and two, the carelessly, shruggingly spoken “I don’t know”. Knowing and not-knowing straddle two ends of a figure-eight. The mystic is the messenger who traces the path between them, between all pairs of seemingly opposing forces, forming an eternal lemniscate, an endless dance.
Next month I’m heading back to Northern Africa after four years away. I hope to return to that cafe to sip mint tea, watch strange films at the Cinema Rif, and wake up to the echoes of prayer through the Medina walls. I don’t know exactly what or who I will meet there, and still, a sliver inside hopes I’ll find the mystic is waiting.
my pants! I made these!!? finally! this project truly involved blood, sweat, and tears.
an email from Norwegian immigration… the results of my visa are in the mail. why can't they just tell me now?!?
this little scene on my windowsill
out my window, at the people in the park who walk their dogs every day
again, my pants. they need two moments!
grateful for wool
surprised and deeply affirmed!! a new woman joined my class, and she asked if I’d like to join her coven… unprompted??? if you remember two letters ago… you know!
like I am a good parent to myself by turning out the light at 8 pm, when my body says it is exhausted
the vibration of a mantra — resonating from my cheeks to my stomach
the sound of my breath - in and out.. steady, steady, this morning while ice-bathing. but first, some screaming.
the slow, methodical rhythm of my sewing machine as it punches through fabric
my friend’s familiar laughter on the phone
laundry soap coming through clean sheets and clothes
dirt — as I put my palms in it, potting a plant
soup!!! It's soup season, y’all! who else loves soup? what’s your go-to recipe?
last night I made a batch with carrots and chickpeas, served up with bread & butter.
Bicycle Boys! I would love to read your lists. Keep ‘em coming my way. <3
A note: If you haven’t yet made your voice known on the crisis in Palestine, please follow the link here to find a number of quick and simple ways to have an impact.
Tunes you heard in the audio voice-over:
intro: Nadim - Freh Khodja
transition: Aflana - Attarazat Addahabia, Faradjallah
outro: Ahl Jedba (Habibi Funk 015) - Fadoul
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I can't wait for your next adventure Morgan, keep me updated! I learn so much about you and the world in your blogs. So thankful for them.
I love this one especially