Just as every chaotic weekday is a test of one’s patience, every gentle Saturday is a lesson on delicately tendered joys. I invariably sleep in, reluctant to abandon my cocooning duvet, often due to very late night conversations with my partner, lingering, even as the enticing call of my French press coffee gambols into my dream drowned consciousness. In these innocent woken seconds, I am torn between my fiery desire to savor the precious hours with my loves and my romantic need for intoxicating slumber. So, I succumb to arising later as the sun moves through its eastern trajectory, for one of my mottos include, “Lentamente Feste”, Latin, for “make haste, slowly’. Yet, lately, I have complimented my gypsy, impulsive, momentous weekends with a few tasks that I must accomplish. Often, these goals are as frivolous as Saturday itself, it could be as caramel imbued as baking a cardamom and rum pineapple upside down cake, or concocting a French pink clay and rose water face mask, it could be reading through all of the interiors articles in NYT Magazine, loosening my imagination upon stories of wild, weathered, sea kissed Scottish estates, fig and iris drowned Moroccan gardens, cherry blossom light fixtures crafted with branches and brass Spanish moss, or discovering the exact shade of arsenic green, laying poisonously and temptingly between pistachio and emerald. Some Saturdays, I venture to collect for my sanctuary, often candles, or incense, hummingbird pink silk ribbon, a seaweed or honeysuckle laced soap, a few queenly purple carnations, sometimes a heart cleansing book on gardening, often a few antique cake pans, but most others, I let the object free narrative seduce me, seeing beauty and nuance in the possessions already around me as they shimmer in the mysterious light decanting through stubborn March freezing rainclouds, discovering new meanings in my butterfly wall garland, or planting my jade and ivy cuttings into inky soil pots, or looking more carefully at the faintly powder blue smoke from my lit Palo Santo stick, as it releases a whirling, mesmerizing and bewildering poem into the air, knowing it is a message, that I have yet learned to read. Pour Poesie, Shammari xx
