Sometims a painting should not be hung

I received the painting of old Damascus for my birthday. Almost every day I have thought, today I should hang it up. Instead I have left it on the corner of my desk.

Not a procrastinator by nature, I wondered why I wasn't going for the hammer and nails.

Today I realised why. As I am writing at the computer, I glance at the picture often. I feel myself there right around from the bakery where the pita bread is shoved into ovens, the store where nuts and seeds are sold, where the fountains plash in courtyards, where green flags hang over the street, where water fountains have a cup for the thirsty.

I feel when I look at that painting I am at Auntie's house drinking matei, waiting for the next round of women to share lives with.

I am sitting in a café near where G. has taken me near the window where St. Paul made his escape. We are having another discussion that will resonate with me for months.

I am listening to a concert of young singers.

I am talking to an artist in his studio.

I cannot go to Damascus as often as I wish, but that painting draws my heart into a city I love with people who have welcomed me with open hearts and have touched my heart and soul as well.