A Birthday Party Plan
It was my 40th birthday, and I was fulfilling an old dream - to have my friends gather for a week of festivities in the Sinai desert. A cluster of Bedouin huts was our 'resort.'
It was spring and the sun was hot enough for us to need only the shelter that was provided: colorful, thin, camel-hair weaved blankets, draped over bamboo-stick frames. The huts' roofs and three walls blew merrily in the breeze and provided plenty of shade. Adorned with a few colorful tassels, each shed's fourth wall was left open, for us to have fresh air day and night.
Arriving From All Over The World, We Made A Tribe.
My partner and I, all the way from California, traveled the farthest. Friends came from England and Israel, with origins in Palestine, Israel, the UK, and South Africa. Among us were Pagans, Jews, Muslims, Christians, and Atheists.
There were singles and couples, parents and non-parents, children and adults, gay, lesbians and heterosexuals in every stage of relationship or single-hood.
I met each of them in different periods of my life, and our connection was strong. Some knew each other before; others met here for the first time.
A Sand Storm
Halfway through our stay, a sand storm began. We clustered with our backs to the wind, but the grains of sand got everywhere - into our eyes, ears, hair, and cloths.
I went to Muhammad, our host and desert man since birth, and asked, how long do sand storms usually last?
"Could be three or four days," he smiled.
I panicked. Three or four days were all we had left of our vacation. What if we couldn't continue our fabulous time catching up, snorkeling, eating, playing, and being lazy in the sun. I couldn't stand giving it up so soon.
I had to do something. And it had to be of the magical realm, because how else would one talk with the desert wind?
I closed my eyes and asked for guidance. It became clear that if I wanted to ask something of the wind - I needed to offer something back.
Taking Action
Heading to my hut in the storm, I stopped by the spiral of sea-shells that I had been collecting and arranging daily. There were cowrie shells, clam shells, and many whose names I didn't know. Each had distinctive color shade and unique character.
I knelt down, and with my eyes closed let my palm hover above the spiral. I picked the first thing my hand touched. As soon as I opened my eyes, my heart sank: in my hand lay my prize possession! The biggest and most impressive of all sea-shells. The one I was going to take home and place in a prime position on my altar. I was dumbfounded. It was tempting to pick up another shell, but I knew it wouldn't do. I was facing a moment of truth.
It was clear I had to offer something meaningful for the desert wind to offer something in return. We had to meet as equals.
I walked slowly to the water line, my hair filling with more sand. Entering the Red Sea up to my waist I felt the force of the storm in the waves. I stood still for a very long time. There was no one in the water or on the shore; all my friends huddled under blankets for shelter.
I knew I had to release the precious sea-shell in my hand, but I couldn't. My head chattering, I attempted various bargains with the wind, all of which felt phony but bought me time. In the end, with a big sigh, I got there: I was ready to let go. I threw the sea-shell with modest force yet it landed in the depth, some distance away.
Letting Go
I walked from the water without looking back. I'd done my part. It was the wind's turn… I joined my friends who sat in a line behind one of the huts, sheltering and exchanging words of hope and disappointment regarding the storm. I was silent. We all had another cup of sweet, black Bedouin coffee, and bided our time. None of us wore a watch, and there was no way of knowing how much time passed.
Little by little the wind died down, until the sea was quiet again, and we could look ahead with no sand in our eyes. Our rejoice was sweet. We jumped up and down, hugged each other, and run into the water to splash our delight.
A few went for a walk along the shoreline, hoping to collect some of the treasures tossed out by the storm. In deep gratitude I went for a swim. On the beach, about an hour later, I saw the group of treasure-hunters heading back to camp.
Magic Happens
"DeAnna, DeAnna, look what I found!" Eight-year old Leila ran towards me, her face beaming. It wasn't until she was a few feet away that I saw what she held in her hand: my prize possession - The sea-shell I gave to the sea to quieten the wind.
Clasped in Leila's hand it was now her prize… I was speechless for a while, and when I regained my balance I told the story. Something in the intensity of the moment drew most of my friends near, to listen.
That evening we had an extra special meal, and gave thanks, each in our own way, for being able to continue our tribal week together in calm weather.
On the morning of our departure, Leila shyly presented me with the sea-shell as a goodbye gift. She must be 18 now, and I haven't seen her since. She may be anywhere in the world now, but this memory is my gift to her.
For more information about DeAnna, her publications and her work, visit www.deannalam.com