Photo by Emily O’Dell
Here’s the new rule: break the wineglass–
and fall toward the glassblower’s breath.
— Rumi
My shopping detour this week ended on the sea at Maison de l’Artisan, an enterprise dedicated to keeping Lebanon’s traditional arts alive. In the shadow of the oncoming sunset, these glasses–set against the backdrop of the sea–refused to let my eye free, perhaps because I’ve been mourning glassblowing as a dying art.
Every good shopping spree, of course, must come to an end–and when the time finally came for me to leave the souqs and shops behind, I left Maison de l’Artisan to run my initial errand–a trip to the organic supermarket to stock up on groceries–in anticipation of war.
Buying in bulk for a hurricane–that I’ve done. But filling up my pantries for something far worse–is a first. Because when the eye of a hurricane strikes–it can be brutal, but it keeps on moving and passes through. But when the eye of war comes–it has nowhere else it’s supposed to be…
