I've been waking early. Coqui frogs sing their symphony in the surrounding valley, wind waits for the sun's arrival, the house sits quietly, but for the hum of fans and air conditioners. Sitting on the porch facing east, I revel in morning's transformation, watching the stars fade and the sky bloom in shades of pale and brilliance.
Summer can be both stunning and languishing. It has a way of turning life on its head, mixing up the energy, the flow, the dance. The season of fire calls us to play more, as we tend seeds previously planted. Between open blue skies and soft aqua waters or Saharan dust coated humidity and thunderous rain clouds, the balance of action and ease shifts each day. There is so much I want to do and, yet, there is only so much I get done. I meet myself each day with thoughts like, "how am I doing?", "what can I do better?" and "what am I missing?"
My book waits for me, in fits and starts, as the open space of empty nesting is no longer here. As much as I want to build, chisel and craft my story, those energies have gone towards a short story, poetry and our home renovation. I'm okay with pausing my project, instead celebrating my kids being home and being a part of their day to day. Nine months of the year they are making their own plans, doing their own laundry, eating from the dining hall and talking to me on FaceTime. I embrace the sublime chaos that arrives each June and departs every September, pinching myself that this is my life, my kids like to hang out with me, they get to return home to a beautiful place where time moves a bit slower, power outages are a daily thing and expectations are lower.
As far as what I could do better (and this probably applies to all of us), I could be nicer to myself, less judgmental and more accepting. Summer is not the season to become an efficiency expert, to change jobs on a dime, to push the pedal to the metal- it's a time to reflect and bathe in the waters of Cancer and then be lit by fiery Leo with family time/ vacations and hurrahs! of the harvest. A flow and GO!, if you will.
Regarding what I am missing, I really don't like looking at shoes and waiting for one to drop. There are so my blessings and I don't want to tinge them with fear or dread. However, this summer has felt a bit different than others. The island has never looked greener in August, fruit is bursting off of trees, rain showers tease and delight, filling our cisterns, watering our plants and calling all mosquitos. Flamboyant trees reign on green hillsides with fire engine red petals. Coconuts dangle from palm trees. Hiking paths are overgrown and muddy, not dry and sparse.
Folks who've lived through hurricanes warn of this abundance. They've seen Mother Nature bestow these gifts before and reap the bounty with her storms. My therapist friend says hurricane anxiety is an annual phenomenom and the demand for anti-anxiety meds is up this year. In the midst of this dueling undercurrent, history shows us that every 7-10 years a "big storm" comes along and devastates. The last ones to hit, a double whammy of two category 5 storms, were Irma and Maria in 2017. The island has rebounded from those storms, but you can still see traces of the ravaging. We're at year 7.
Presently surrounded by such verdant beauty, it feels as though we're living on a bated breathe. I've asked friends about their hurricane experiences and they've told me stories of families leaving the island on ferries and last flights the day before a storm hit, while others remained to secure what they could, protect what they had; how trees lose their all of their leaves, exposing abandoned cars and garbage hidden by the island's foliage; when the power goes out for months and friends without generators move in with friends who have them. In all of these stories, I am constantly struck by the respect people have of the storms, the pride they share as reckoners and survivors and the palpable PTSD glazed look when they talk about what it was like. Eyebrows rise, eyes sink in, cheeks hollow out as teeth clench.
Cresting our 4th summer on St. Thomas, as we prepare to leave for a few weeks, I can't help but hear the fates talking. "Don't borrow worry from tomorrow for today." - "Worry is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do but doesn't take you anywhere." - "Worry is suffering twice." These quotes all seem a bit glib when applied to hurricane scenarios. Living on this island comes with the guarantee of a natural disaster every decade or so and, there in, I find myself in a struggle . I don't want to imagine the storms coming, but I cannot deny that they will. I even hesitated to write about the hurricanes, superstitious I invite their possibility even more by letting the cat out of the bag. But, denial isn't just a river in Egypt.
I guess I am naming the beast, in hopes of taming it- or at least calling out it's shape and form. From this side of disaster, all there is to do is keep going, keep building, keep on keeping on. The "soon come" (an island saying) will, in fact, come at some point. While our house on the point has new roofs, there are no windows or doors. Our belongings sit in a storage container in the driveway, with our surfboards stacked beside it. There's nothing to be done but secure what's on the grounds and pray to gods Indra and Boreas not to invite storms of rage and dismantling winds, to summon Sarahan dust to our shores and sugarcoat our atmosphere, keeping the tempests at bay.
We must trust what comes.
What are you trusting these days? How are you doing and what, if anything, do you think you are missing? I'd love to hear from you.
With gratitude and respect for all things beautiful and sparkly in our world at this moment,
St. Sunshine
PS- I took this photo the morning I started writing this post. I didn't hold still long enough to capture the turning of night to dawn, but I love what came through. While ominous, there's such a poingant space between the earthly and the surreal. What do you see?
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