Mooned by Sheikh

"Moorish Girl Lying on a Couch"
Rabat Morocco

by Edwin Lord Weeks

Any woman who counts Margaret Atwood a friend as Nasneen Sheikh does in her recently published, "Moon over Marrakech", I assume to be a strong, intelligent female.   What is a strong, intelligent female? More problematic still, what is a strong, intelligent female within the context of romantic love?

I am infatuated with the thought of maintaining my own persona of the strong intelligent female. I am also infatuated with the thought of travelling to Morocco. Interesting conundrum. For the last few years I have wanted to take an extended holiday there. I've read history books, travel guides, fiction, and most recently Ms. Sheikh's memoir, set, for the most part in that mysterious land I have so often fantasized about. 

In this post, I am only going to speak of Ms. Sheikh's tale of her second marriage, I will not forray into the complexities of the third. Go on, get out there and buy the book!!! 

Donna Bailey Nurse reviewed Sheikh's book in the The Globe and Mail as one of two "..captivating memoirs". Captivating indeed! 

The book takes us through the labyrinth of Sheikh's romantic life.  Beginning at the end of her first marriage, and, straight away into her second.  Red flag.  One very wise, very Jack Daniels soaked friend of mine gave me some sage advice when I separated from my husband.  He said, "You think you're ready for another relationship now, but you need at least three years to heal yourself before you'll be any good to anyone."

I thought he was crazy.  But, as it turns out, he was right. I needed that time to regroup, get intimate with the bruises and scrapes that happened along the road at the end of my marriage, and heal enough to have the energy to give to someone else  in a relationship.

Bruises and scrapes and contemplative healing be damned. Ms. Sheikh headed straight into a head over heels relationship with whom would very shortly become her second husband.  Despite the overuse of extravagant adjectives, Ms. Sheikh describes a seemingly wonderful relationship. Her husband adored her, doted on her, was more than competent as a provider, sender of flowers and devoted, satisfying lover. (Any man reading this, please note the above three qualities - and oh yes, the man was intelligent too - in other words, she could roll over and talk to him after their fantastical love making sessions.)

As she paints the picture of her honeymoon with hubby numero two, there are hints of power and control issues.   It was his choice of guide, his insistence on keeping the same guide despite her expressed discomfort and swarthy secrets that she needn't worry her pretty little silent head over. That kind of thing. Before the end of their honeymoon, I was disgusted at her submissiveness. Although her husband cares for her, it is in a way that leads to her acquiescence, she yeilds to his needs and agenda and does not have her own. Is this imposed dominance in a sneaky subversive way,  or is this what we do in relationships - bend to please our beloved?

But what's submissive? What works and what doesn't? From the outside looking in, and from an ever-expanding perception of my own relationships, what is this dance of self and togetherness? It certainly is not black and white. Like arguing religion infused politics, arguing structure in a love relationship is futile. Maintaining a unique identity while etching out the identity of the couple is interesting to say the least.


More and more the lines cross, instead of being drawn with firm boundaries. Navigating the ever-changing web of these uniquely woven lines seems to be the art of love relationships. On page 123 of her book, when the author finally finds her missing ex-husband who has lied about a long-standing psychiatric disorder, and left her destitute, she says this of rescuing him, " This is a choice I make with full consciousness."

Over a long chat, some diet soda and a plate of nachos, one of my very intelligent girlfriends and I discussed our romantic relationships. We're educated, independent, and also struggle with maintaining our strong, independent selves while loving the men in our lives.

We too have made our choices with full consciousness. Just not full logic, and instead, a heaping amount of emotion. Does this make us weak, or does this make us brave women who hold the world together with that taboo (within the secret sisterhood of strong, independent women) glue of loving and giving?

A few years ago, I came across a quote that I am reminded of time and time again when I think of relationship issues. Not only romantic love, but the relationships we hold most dearly; close family and friends. That saying is; "The truth can be seen from many doorways". What is felt by one person is translated differently by the other. It's respecting how the other feels and treating that emotion with honour and respect that is a key to one of those many doorways.

But that's the rub isn't it? Being able to practice that loving and honouring of your partner's emotion when you have your own feelings and ego at stake? I don't think I'm alone when I say I'm unsure sometimes where loving ends and losing yourself begins? Yep, not so good at navigating that tightrope when it comes to voicing what I need and going over the top just slightly. I am by the way, quite fabulous at "over-the-top".

Although I just wanted to pull the author out of her own life as I read her tale of three marriages, who is to say that she was ever wrong? How can I judge another woman when I struggle with  my own identity in relationship? Let's face it ladies and gentleman - we all struggle with this.

This could not have been easy putting her life out there on the shelf. Granted, like every other writer, including my beloved Mr. Leonard Cohen, Ms. Sheikh likely needed the money, what with having a disasterous third marriage to a man who  cannot arguably be described as anything else but a underdeveloped-selfish-flap-of-wasted-skin. 

Granted financial need likely played a part in making the decision to publish the book, we can use this narrative as a mirror to our own selves. I am deeply thankful to Ms. Sheikh for sharing. There is always value in witnessing someone else's story.

After all, perhaps I was the weak, ignorant female, having picked up Ms. Sheikh's book with the hope of hearing a tale of a "successful" romance? A tale of a woman finding true love of mutual respect and intellect in the most unlikely of places.

We need to continue to share our stories; not just the perfectly baked cake and romantic-weekends-away stories, but stories of our heart - the trials and tribulations we experience as women. It is in this deep, dark muck that we will find the wisdom to grow.

The Gift of Storytelling



"To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller,
 but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it."


~Joyce Maynard~

 Anyone who knows me knows that I love mugs and pens. When I have a good cup of tea or coffee in my left hand, and a pen in my right, I'm usually feeling creative, relaxed and positive. One year my friend Jan gave me a mug at the change of every season. I still use those mugs every day at work.  This summer my friend Vicki bought me a beautiful pottery mug that I save for writing and needlework at home. I remember Jan and Vicki with every sip, and the stories that we've shared.

Yesterday, in a quick but oh-so-necessary pit stop to Starbucks.....ok, ok, I know what you're thinking; "Yah right.  A necessary stop at Starbucks ( reverently referred to by my more left wing acquaintance as Sixbucks).  Yes. Necessary. I was working in the community yesterday, with nowhere to pee but gas stations and coffee shops. I refuse to pee where they sell windshield washer fluid and porn. Feel my pain people.

Anyway, I toddled into Starbucks and after my bee-line to the ladies room, I decided to order  a good-old-fashioned-decaf-non-fat-eggnog-latte.  What with having such a traditional holiday beverage, I got into the Christmas spirit and looked at the display of mugs, over-priced stuffed mice (again very traditionally Christmas - what the heck?!) and an absurd mug that had some weird verse about a squirrel going out and making friends. Who in the world are the marketers trying to kid? Squirrels?! Garden-Nazi-guerrilla-garden-wreckers and demons from hell. Nobody makes friends with squirrels! My girlie side won out, and despite the political squirrel propaganda, the mugs were really cute, and I want one.

It was the rather modern, red and white tall latte mug that caught my attention. Each year the company comes out with a new design for the paper coffee cups. This year it's mimicked by a porcelain one as well. The design is a modern red and white pattern with the usual Starbucksish self righteous and sometimes inspiring or witty comment.  Anyway, the little quip on the perma-version of the mug this year reads something about sharing stories over coffee because stories are gifts.  Sold again Starbucks. Great marketing. Great reminder. Somebody lend me twelve bucks so I can buy a mug and read that quote every day. Better yet, you go out and buy one too, so you remember to share your stories even in the busiest times.

Lately life has become an unlikely machine. Events like breakfast, homework, work, the gym and daily telephone calls have become so time crunched to be rendered almost empty of meaning. The persistent grind has become exhausting, so much so that making an effort to create or take in great creative works of the human spirit is disabled.

Over the years my work has become the calling of listening to the stories of others.  Listening, hearing with my heart, and validating, and then of course the necessary paperwork to justify it all. When I feel like I've become a cog, I need stories. I need to write mine and to hear yours.

I have what some might call an "embarrassment of riches" when it comes to stories I can tell about my life;being held up by the army in Venezuela, outdoor sunrise Quaker services, African Shamans, working as a reporter and funeral director, cake at Les Deux Maggots, hermaphrodite neighbours, Christian mystic relatives....

Everyone on the earth suffers and rejoices in the experience of the human condition in turns. Sometimes laughter, sometimes tears, sometimes wonder and awe. Besides being present in those moments, it is our gift of language and our sharing of stories through which we share and absorb the stories which define the abstract notion of  what it means to be fully physiologically and spiritually human.

We have evolved into a society of people who text in a language decipherable by primates; "ur funny", "ROTFL", "how r u".  At one time, the art of letter writing was highly valued. To think that someone would take the time to sit down, commit the time to put pen to paper and be thoughtful in their communication to another human being was normal.  This thoughtful process evolved into telegrams; "Come home. Mom is sick",  to email (which most closely resembles the lost art of written communication), to texting, tweeting, and a barely decipherable parallel language. 

Language is more than just words. Language is a process, a vehicle and international currency used to analyze and express emotional concepts. This highly sophisticated linguistic expression of emotion is, I suppose, one of the key factors that keep us from living like apes and picking fleas out of one another's hair.  What should we think when language is taken down to a simple, bare, emotionless form of "u's, ur's and luv's"?  Is this the equivalent of our emotional degeneration as a society?

Every culture has it's roots in the muck of oral tradition. Historically storytellers were honoured and respected as great teachers and sages.  The oral tradition gave way to the written tradition. Those who were fortunate enough to have the luxury of learning how to read and write became the editors of society.  Their stories thrived as the oral tradition lost the privilege of time.  Industrialisation, commercialization, paying the mortgage, buying music lessons and hockey practice demand time and energy. 

Books? Who has time to read books?!  Maybe you snuggle up with Kobo or Kindle, maybe you download the classics and listen in 20 minute bursts as you grind on the treadmill or clench the steering wheel through rush hour traffic.  It is the rare individual or community who make time to keep their traditions alive. Storytelling in our twenty-first-century-independent dwellings no longer has a place. Grandpa and Grandma live a thousand miles away, or in a retirement home, and because the family is so busy making ends meet and raising over-indulged, over-stimulated, under-imaginitive children, who has time to listen to  stories?

This year I hope that instead of worrying about small token gifts, I can make time to get together with my friends over one of those pretentiously written paper cups of pseudo-styled coffee and tell our stories.  I hope the joy of the non-fat-decaf-eggnog-latte season lasts the entire year through. 

Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I wore my pyjama top to the office, or waxed half of my left eyebrow off before a first date, or the time I ripped my spanx? Tell me again how your second husband was the streaker who you saw on a date with your first husband.  Please tell me again how you dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor and then fed it to your in-laws.  Tell me again how you got your nickname.  Tell me again about that silly wooden sculpture your husband bought for your anniversary.  Do you remember the time you called me the Great Kreskin and we laughed for a week?  Do you remember laughing all night about our coworker in the runaway kids car? Do you remember the Scottish rugby team and the birthday cake buying cab driver?  What about the Polish lady wearing the white boots in the new year's eve Porlamar market? I love these stories. 

All of us have our gift of storytelling immaculately wrapped already. 'Tis the season to start sharing that gift.