Those of you who know me well are probably aware that anxiety is my middle name. The Vikings would have dubbed me Liz the Worrier, and I would ironically die in almost every horror movie. My fear creeps in at the very insinuation of the word deadline.
You may be thinking, “…and this girl wants to be a journalist?”
Short answer: Yes. What could be more life-affirming than facing an all-consuming fear everyday? What could be better than learning to let go?
Mastering this craft has the added element of conquering my anxiety on almost every project I do. I’ve tried yoga, running, deep breathing exercises and of course, trying to ignore it. No matter what i do, or how small the project, I hate the feeling I get when a story is out of my immediate control. I will pace for the greater part of a half hour waiting for a source to reply to my emails and my eyes will always dart to the nearest clock when I hit a dead end in my research.
So here I am with my first assignment…in a foreign country…in another’s home. I’m tapping my fingers. I’m sighing. I’m pacing and furiously typing.
My sister is worried.
“Labez?” -“Jayeed” -“You should take a nap.” -“Shokran. But I’m not tired.”
But in a Moroccan household there is one occasion that I am forced to break for. Food. “Maj, Liz maj!”
So on Saturday, between scanning for articles and brainstorming interview subjects, I walked upstairs and peeked my head into the kitchen where Mama and Papa sat. Moma preparing for tea. Papa gazing past her out the window and smoking.
At this point, I think my family has realized that I like to help cook. When she saw me, Mama clamped down on my arms and pulled me over to the counter. She put a bowl of egg in front of me and dropped a fork inside.
Before I knew it Mama was directing my attention around the room showing me how to dunk the hoobs into the egg mixture and place pieces on the pan. Do I know how make french toast? Of course. But that didn’t matter. Mama was so happy she grabbed me and laid a kiss on my forehead when I took a picture of the tea kettle (which she had me put on of course). She laughed when I tried to pour the tea.
In Morocco it’s traditional to start down down by the cup and stretch your arm up, lengthening the stream without splashing. My attempt was a little sloppy, but I like to think it got the job done.
More importantly, as I brought the trays out to the sitting room for everyone, I realized my breathing had slowed and I was smiling. It’s not full-proof but I think my anxiety’s going to be okay…for now.
Elizabeth Gillis 