It's that time of year for winter winds, even on St. Thomas. Some call them Christmas winds, which makes me smile. The water temperature is dropping and locals aren't as willing to dip their toes in the aqua blue, leaving the beach swimming to the tourists. White caps dot the deep indigo off our point, reaching far into the Atlantic. White sails mark the seams of sky and ocean as they transport their passengers to quiet harbors. The green of the sea grapes and aloes seem a bit more faded, thirsting for rain or stillness- it's hard to say. The surroundings ground us in their perpetual subtleties, marking the end of our calendar year with their own versions of holiness. December in the tropics- a winter of warm sunshine along with some some lucky days in a pair of jeans and a sweater.
With the seasonal shifts of currents, both wind and water, it's a time to note what is shifting internally. This space of writing reminds me that I am an observer of all landscapes. That love is in the details and the remarkable comes from simply paying attention. On morning drives taking Harry to school we count the cruise ships in the harbor, their massive alien stature summiting the surrounding hillsides. On morning ferries to St. John to visit with friends, I count the luggage of vacationers and am asked questions, somehow taken as a local, by tourists about what beaches to visit. It's funny, I have lived in a few different territories that are considered "vacationland." Maine proudly claims it on her license plates, St. Thomas announces it at the Cyril B. Kind airport with the Moko Jumbies (highly adorned and colorful stilt-walkers) and free shots of rum passed out at the baggage claim. And as for the south of France, lets just say that the skyline of the Alps with the contrast of the turquoise Mediterranean Sea mixed with the glamorous deliciousness of the wines, cheeses, and regional food make for a slice of heaven that no one, tourist or native, would turn down. Each region has extremely different definitions of what makes them appealing and all embrace ideals of living a life in the outdoors and accepting/inviting the coming and going of transient folks who partake of the coastlines, mountains, and climate as they see fit. And what I am trying to sum up here is that I am an observer of the vacationers and I am embracing my status as someone who provides information on the places that some people only get to dream about.
I am not a travel writer, though it sounds like a fun job. I am not a storyteller who narrates the lives of dreamed up characters and discloses the decadence and the dysfunction of a family vacation. I am a here and now kind of girl, one who absorbs and filters the environment and is practicing how to sort out all of the abundance and pour it into words. Sometimes there are days that just don't have a worthiness to them (or what at the start feels like an un-worth-it-ness) and I still sit, patiently working open a resistant and askew valve to get the flow going, word by word. These days are my writing blocks- like a yoga block- when I sit at the table, be it on our veranda looking out to the Atlantic or at our dining table with my head down. Here in the vastness or the singular, I prop myself up on a faith that something will appear in the simple act of reverence for what made up a day. I make space to work off the uneasiness and dive deep into the mundane and the brilliant. And because the holiday season is upon us, here's where I went the other day in my realm of details and delight, struggle and insecurity. A brief reflection, if you will, of what is. The here and now on a tropical island where Christmas spirit seems far away...
We haven't put up a tree this year and the stockings are packed, but Hugh sent us the annual Jackie Lawson advent calendar- a virtual winter wonderland to wake up to each morning. To get in the mood I play Christmas music and consider getting out the cookie cutters and making my iced sugar cookies. The calling to make a holiday card hasn't struck, but I am sure it will come before 2022 really gets upon us- ie, January. It feels a bit like a holiday limbo, if you will. I'm not covertly wrapping gifts or manically going through lists of who gets what, but boy do I remember those days. Rather, there is calm mixed with innocent excitement as I enjoy winter winds in the islands and anticipate a week of winter in the mountains. It's a bit of a holiday experiment, putting Christmas on ice until we arrive in the snow, lights and song in full force. But maybe a week of Christmas is all we need?
Either way, it's a wrap for St. Sunshine and 2021! I'll be back come 2022, but until then I wanted to wish you an abundantly joy-filled holiday season. I ask you to soak in the details and remember the delight. I invite you to take breaths of stillness and be open to moments of awe. As always, I thank you for your support, your comments, sharing me with friends and just being a part of this process. Every time I sit down to write, your presence encourages me to be in my heart and to listen to what's there. I hope that my words can do the same for you.
With much love and light,
St. Sunshine
Comments