Living in the Land of Plenty

Until a few years ago, I thought life allotted only a certain amount of happiness. Like I had an individual good fortune quota and once reached… that’s it! I’m S.O.L., baby. Might as well brace for the inevitable misfortune to strike. After all, what made me so special? I’d already been so blessed during my short time on the planet, I surely didn’t deserve more of the good stuff. Life seemed merely a series of challenges and worries, obstacles and struggles, interspersed with a few victories and periods of precarious peace. It’s no wonder I was intermittently miserable for a good two decades.

The end of 8^th grade, I recall as one of those short-lived periods of satisfaction. I had supportive and fun friends, a boyfriend (also short-lived) who sang in a band, and exceptional grades. My extra-curricular life was active and rich in music, playing both the piano and the saxophone. I was starting the transition between adolescence and young womanhood. I remember telling my mom (and lifelong confidant), “I feel happy and content for the first time in as long as I can remember.” 

Good grief.  Can you imagine hearing such a thing from your beloved only child? Admittedly, junior high is hellish, but still!

I think this remission from constant anxiety and dis-ease lasted for, oh, all of a week. Maybe two. At best.

I experienced the same brief fulfillment near the end of my college freshmen year, which had also culminated in success.  My first-year seminar research paper was chosen for presentation at an Honor’s conference. I’d landed a job at the college radio station the next year. And I had a summer internship at a radio station in my hometown. I was happy and proud of myself. But also scared. I remember telling Mom this time that so many good things had been happening to me lately, I felt sure that something bad was about to strike to even it all out. After all, why was I deserving of so much good fortune? (Not acknowledging, of course, how diligently and faithfully I had worked to bring these good things into my life.)

A recent conversation with my Island Sista got me thinking about this happiness quota thing. She voiced a fear she harbors about her personal power. Namely, that the more power and strength she has, the less that will be available to those around her.  She worries that HER power and energy and good fortune somehow suck those qualities away from her husband and children. This prompted me to go on passionately and at length about the difference between choosing to live under a Paradigm of Scarcity verses a Paradigm of Abundance. (Ahem…Thanks, Island Sista, for so graciously listening to my oration. And thanks to you too, my dear readers, for reading these musings.)  

Wait. I know what some of you are thinking. A Paradigm a wha?

You know, a paradigm. (pair-a-dime) A way of thinking. A set of beliefs that frame your vision and outlook on life. If you live under a Paradigm of Scarcity—and most people still do, especially in this “harsh economic reality”—you believe there is not enough to go around. The pie can only be sliced so many times and into ever smaller pieces. You have to get yours before I can get mine. The more you cling to what you have, the better off you’ll be. By having a lot of money, success, love, happiness, status, and power, you take away from the amount of those things available to everyone else. 

This kind of thinking sets us up to be stingy, greedy, defensive, anxious, jealous, tense, and often angry. Yuck! I don’t know about you, but whenever I feel any of those things in my body, it feels gross and unpleasant. And I’m likely to do and say gross and unpleasant things. Which makes me feel even grosser and more unpleasant, since I know that I’m truly a beautiful, kind, and loving person.

As with any core beliefs, our reality tends to reflect them. Meaning, that what we believe about our existence dictates the thoughts in our heads, and affects what will naturally display itself in our lives.  Our external experiences reflect our internal thoughts and beliefs. In this way, we create our own reality. My younger life reflected my beliefs. I thought I only deserved wee amounts of good, so I was only ever happy for wee amounts of time. Since I believed life worked that way…my life, indeed, worked that way.

Now, if you have chosen to live under a Paradigm of Abundance, you believe there is more than enough of everything to go around. The finite pie is a fiction of our limited beliefs. In reality, we can bake enough pies to feed the world population and have plenty for leftovers. Ultimately, the supply of money, success, love, happiness, and power is infinite and available to anyone who desires and believes they deserve these things. I can get mine AND you can get yours. The more I give, the more I receive. Your good doesn't detract from my good. In fact, your good ENHANCES my good, if only I allow it. 

This kind of thinking sets us up to be generous, flexible, supportive, peaceful, and loving. I don’t know about you, but when I feel generous, flexible, supportive, peaceful, and loving…well…it gets all warm and fuzzy in my body, and my heart seems to expand.  Then I’m likely to spread those warm fuzzies to everyone I encounter. And then they will spread those warm fuzzies to everyone THEY encounter. And then we are truly experiencing the beautiful, kind and loving people we are all meant to be.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that this sort of human emotional domino effect can easily occur with pissiness and contempt too. Let us all try not to do that any more.

Never once have I been broke since adopting a Paradigm of Abundance about my financial security and stopped constantly fretting about money. In fact, it has come to me more easily and effortlessly. When I moved to the Virgin Islands almost three years ago, I left an upwardly mobile position with full benefits in a successful growing business. I laugh now at the memory of commuting home one evening on a Minneapolis highway thinking, “I surely will never make less than _____ again. I have nothing to worry about financially. It will only get better from here.”

And while I was right about part of that statement—the part about not having to worry—I was certainly wrong about the never making less than ______ bit. Because I took over a 50% pay cut when the first job I could get on St. Thomas was in a coffee shop making little more than $10/hr with no benefits (other than an unlimited supply of free coffee and tea). And you know what? I was always fine. I didn’t get behind on my student loans. I had no problem paying for my basic needs, or taking care of Hershey. While my bank account was much closer to zero than it had been in recent years, my life felt richer in many other ways. When I couldn’t pay for some bigger ticket items (a plane ticket home for my girl Lissa’s wedding, a new hard drive and operating system for my laptop), a couple of angels in my life were happy to make gifts of those items to me. Gifts which I happily paid forward once I was in a place of greater monetary abundance. 

I want to stress that abundance encompasses much more than money. Even when our coffers feel full and secure, we may feel deprived in other areas. It has been far more difficult for me to make the shift to a Paradigm of Abundance in the area of time. For the past 15 years—roughly half of my life—there always seems to be far more on my to-do list than there is time in which to get it all done.  I create unsustainable cycles or patterns and eventually burn out. My fellow members of the millennial generation will surely recall the famed Saved By The Bell episode when Jessie Spano reaches her breaking point, exclaiming, “There’s no time….there’s never any time…I don’t have time to work…I have to study…I have to sing tomorrow…I’m so… so….scared.” And then she crashes into Zach's protective arms. I pretty much do exactly the same thing. I am trying to remind myself that even though it seems like there is a finite amount of time in a day, week, month, whatever…the more I focus on and believe in the lack of time, the more my reality will reflect such beliefs.

One exercise I’ve been doing lately to shift my beliefs and perception about time is to leisurely sing a certain Rolling Stones line to myself as I go about my daily business. Whenever I notice thoughts like, “I’m running out of time. I don’t have enough time to get all of this done,” running through my head, I replace it with, “Tiiiiiiiime, is on my side, yes it is.” And then I just loop it and I’m good to go. The fretting stops and I move forward.

We already know that the concept of time is subjective. When we’re bored and want to be doing something other than what we’re doing, time d r a g s. When we’re completely engaged in what we’re doing, time flies. The more I believe at my core that time is on my side, the more time I will find in my life. Feeling abundant only creates more abundance—even if your logical mind can’t comprehend how it could possibly work. It does.

If I could talk to my 14 and 19 year old selves, I would tell them (oh gawd, what I would tell them!) from the other side of the mirror:
“Sweetie…Baby girl…My darling Ashley…Relax! Stop. Breathe. Smile. Know this, my love, you deserve to be happy. Know that accomplishment doesn’t have to be difficult and strenuous. You accomplish more when you’re having fun! YOUR GOOD IS UNLIMITED. The only person who can keep you from your unlimited good is you, sweetheart. And remember that your 29-year-old self loves you more than you can imagine.”

Honestly, I could really benefit from my 29-year-old self telling this to my 29-year old self daily from the other side of the mirror.

Here’s what I told my Island Sista: the best part of living under a Paradigm of Abundance is that it’s contagious. Island Sista’s personal power can expand to her children and husband, boosting their own. In a very real way, she is showing her young daughters how to be a strong, successful, and loving woman. She can use her strength to empower others, not just her family, but damn near everyone she encounters. Power, success, inspiration….these things are not scarce…there is plenty available to everyone who desires and even more importantly, believes they deserve them. Many of us are phenomenally talented at denying and/or limiting our own good. When we stop limiting ourselves, we choose to love ourselves, and in loving ourselves, we can truly love others. 

We make a choice every day.  Every minute. How do we want to view the world? And how does our view affect the way we treat others? And how does the way we treat others affect how they treat others, and so on?   

Your good is unlimited. And so is everyone else’s.  We must only believe it is so, and then choose to operate as such.

Three Small Steps to Shift from a Paradigm of Scarcity to Abundance.

• ·       Never skimp on a tip…round up to 21% rather than down to 19% (NEVER tip less than 20% unless you have terrible service. Plus, the math is easy. Figure out 10% and double it.) Throw more than a few coins in the barista bucket at the coffee shop and you will make someone’s day. This is an especially powerful action when you feel a strong lack yourself. I tip generously and lovingly and have NEVER run out of money because I over-tipped. (I have never run out of money since shifting to abundance-based thinking, period. Close! But never completely. Funds have come to me in unexpected ways when I needed it most.)

• ·       Allow yourself small indulgences that are significant to you. For example, I love colorful gel pens that write luxuriously. They make me happy. For some reason, they make my life feel more vivid and rich. Ballpoint pens feel cheap and lackluster to me. So even though the pens I like are much more expensive than the ballpoint kind, I never deny myself the luxury of writing with the pens I enjoy. Even when my bank account was much closer to zero, I always let myself splurge on writing utensils, and felt richer and more abundant for it.

• ·       Before you go to bed each night, write down five things from your day for which you are grateful. This is a powerful practice that I truly miss whenever I go through a time period of not doing it. It expands your consciousness of gratitude, and attracts even more blessings into your life. See an example on the sidebar of this here blog.  

Nature's Abundance

Island Animal Watch: Chickens

Along with white rabbits, chickens have also played a symbolic role in my transition from a comfortable Minnesota life to a... well, more bohemian Caribbean one. 


The story begins during my first visit to St. Thomas in the fall of 2006, shortly after my mom landed h'eh. I spied a chicken hanging out in a tree at Friendly's one day...

Photographic Evidence

...and it really left me flabbergasted. The experience showed up in an essay I wrote for a writing class at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. You can read the essay here. (I recommend reading now for full effect of this blog post.)


Shortly after my third visit to St. Thomas—and final one before moving here— the wild island chickens managed to fly their way into my head. The little shits clucked and fluttered around in there, making a mess of all the worries and thoughts and desires I'd tried my whole life to organize so perfectly. 

At this point, I hadn’t decided to move. I felt swept away. Completely changed. Deep down, I knew I had to go. But fear reigned me in. And love too, of course. Fear of the unknown. Fear of hurting and giving up the partner I had always considered such an undeserved gift. My life in Minnesota was beautiful in many ways. And while completely caught up in an immense, swirling feeling of fantasy and possibility, I also regarded myself with an equal amount of suspicion— distrusting the motives that would sacrifice my current blessings for an unknown adventure, creativity and...well, let's be honest now, lust.


Which brings us to Mr. T...
We were on the phone, at just about midnight. I sat on the back patio of the condo I shared with my Ex. The place we fell in love with together, decorated together, the one we planned to start our joint life in together. The fountain in our neighborhood's manmade pond splashed therapeutically just a few yards away. Of course, it wasn't lost on me that this was nowhere near as calming as the primal rhythm of ocean crashing on shore. I wondered if the neighbors could see me chain-smoking cigarettes and swigging from a bottle of Blue Moon under the twinkle lights so lovingly hung by the Ex only a few months before. For some reason I was telling Mr. T. about the chickens essay, (which you should go and read now if you haven’t yet) and he asked me in a low sexy voice,


“Do you feel like a chicken in a cage?”


*BAM*
Another bitch slap courtesy of the Universe.


“Um...Maybe…
I guess I hadn’t really thought of it like that.”


The question rendered me inarticulate.


My life did, at that moment, seem as if lived within a metaphorical cage. Beyond residing in a suburban condo, sitting on a patio nearly identical to all the other neighborhood patios, I pretty much always did what was safe and expected. What I SHOULD do. I did what was productive, what would build my bank account, even if it completely neglected my creative and spiritual coffers.


“Or would you rather be a wild island chicken in a tree?” he continued.


Well, when you put it like that…


“I guess I’d rather be a wild island chicken in a tree…”


This conversation looped through my mind during my final days commuting on the Twin Cities expressways. I needed to eject myself from these comfortable surroundings, into a place where I'd be forced to learn new skills for survival and success.  Not unlike the chickens of St. Thomas, who depend only on themselves to feed and shelter their families. Midwestern chickens, specifically those in factory farms, don’t enjoy this experience of self-reliance and freedom. They sit in one place and wait for their next meal or injection, and also their turn at the slaughter. They have such little volition. While wild island chickens may have to dodge tourists and scour dumpsters to stay alive, they also have the opportunity to fly into trees. 


It became increasingly clear to me that I didn’t want to be a caged chicken waiting for the slaughter.


I wanted to be a free island chick, forced to rely on her own pluck for success. (sorry! couldn't help the pun.)


And if you hadn’t yet guessed, those wild island chickens inspired da name of de blog ya readin’ now.

The fowl really do have free reign of this island.

Island Animal Watch: White Rabbits?

During my last session with Julia, the holistic and spiritual-if-you-want-her-to-be therapist I visited before moving to St. Thomas, I asked if she had any final wisdom before I departed on my adventure.

“Follow white rabbits,” she replied.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to elaborate on that one, please.”

She said that in the The Matrix,  Keanu Reeves’ character repeatedly sees white rabbits, he follows them, and they lead to the next step on his journey. (Of course, the Alice in Wonderland derived white rabbit theme has become a modern narrative archetype, if not a total pop culture cliche'. Which makes my experience with them in St. Thomas even more astonishing.) I told her I’d recently noticed a surplus of fleur-de-lis in my life, and Mr T. is being driven crazy by multiple ones (yes, like the number, 1111). She urged me to pay attention to signs like these because they are affirmations of being on the right path…or, I suppose, warnings of being on the wrong one, depending on the vibe.

Both fleur-de-lis and 111’s accompanied us on our road trip from Minneapolis to Miami, creating an enchanting sense of magical flow.

Which started to wear off about a week after being in St. Thomas when the anxiety—my old toxic frenemy—returned. But by the grace of some godly entity, I had an affirming experience that hit violently, like a much-needed smack upside my soul.

Mom, Mr. T and I were at the Hull Bay Hideaway for dinner. Mom and I drove together, and Mr. T met us on his bike. When it was time to leave, he suggested that I join him. I’d been scared up to this point, never having ridden a motorcycle before. Fortunately, I was aided by some of the liquid courage that flows so freely in St. Thomas. I reminded myself that I am here for some adventure, dammit. And riding on the back of a crotch-rocket on a mountainous, drunken island certainly counts.

As we rolled out of the boatyard/parking lot, I noticed some fluffy white bunny rabbits hopping in the grass. It never occurred to me that an animal so common to the temperate region of my homeland would also live in the tropics. Bunny rabbits aren’t tropical, are they? I can accept vermin like rats, mongoose and lizards… but cottontail bunnies? They seemed so completely out of place. An animal anatopism. But there they were, chilling in the grass, black eyes shining in the dark.

It wasn’t until I got to Mr. T's house after what turned out to be an exhilarating ride that I remembered what Julia had told me only I a few weeks earlier. Never did I think her advice would manifest itself so literally in my life. The realization actually gave me goosebumps, followed by a welcome sense of calm and wonder. For the next few weeks, I continued to see white rabbits around The Hideaway . And as the anxiety grew worse, they always brought a bit of warm fuzzy.

Most recently, I’ve encountered the white rabbits at Seven Minus Seven, the alternative arts collective I'm involved with. I first noticed them on an old graffiti-painted car outside. (I just now realized the car is actually a VW Golf, a model previously known as a VW Rabbit, which makes this story even better.)

And then on the indoor painting below:

(All done by former Artist-in-Residence, Paz. If you're interested in buying any of the art Paz' created at the 7-7 warehouse, we're happy to facilitate you.)




It's that long skinny one with the white rabbits over on the left above the fridge.
I want it for myself someday.

These encounters with white rabbits serve as a reminder not to discount magic. It may not come in a pull-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat kinda way (okay, yes, pun intended). But it’s still there, sometimes in the most literal, face-slapping manner possible. One thing I've learned since this whole adventure began is that paying attention to these synchronicities—what my friend Beth calls tiny miracles— makes life a helluva lot more mysterious and fun.

On Spirituality and Religion, Part 2: Background

I’ve been actively soul searching and spiritually seeking for a few years now. This is nothing more than a return to my childlike nature. I couldn’t help but ponder spiritual, metaphysical, and ethical questions (as well as a host of other topics not immediately applicable to this here blog post) in my youth.

I had many deep inquiries:

“Why are we part of life on this earth?”

“Where did I come from before I was born? After I die, where will I go? Is it the same place?”

“Could our Universe really be as small as a blade of grass or grain of sand? Have I had other lives on this earth or elsewhere? If so, did I know my mom or my dogs in any of them?”

“Why am I supposed to love God more than anyone else? I love my mom more than I love God, and I don’t really want to change that.

“Why is it that some people are born so nerdy, and other people are born cool? It’s not really fair, is it?”

These innate spiritual questions were informed by Christian teachings. First in the rigid Missouri-Synod Lutheran school where I went until 5th grade. Then in the more liberal, yet just as cliquey, Presbyterian church where I was confirmed—an event directly proceeding the termination of my faith in Christianity and the initiation of my agnostic phase.

I set about focusing on secular life. One thing I knew for sure: religion, especially Christianity, didn't interest me at all. Some Eastern traditions (about which I knew little) piqued my curiosity, but I really thought religion a manmade construct that harmed more than helped.
I don’t think this an uncommon route for the modern spiritual seeker.

But in the past few years, I have naturally revisited my childhood ponderings on the reason for human existence. I can’t remember exactly how this yearning returned, but it started around the same time I came to know Dr. Scott Taylor. His doctoral dissertation on the transformative effect of Near Death Experiences on survivors rekindled the passion that fuels my current spiritual quest. His findings were fascinating, and I craved more. Scott introduced me to Abraham-Hicks and the Law of Attraction, Conversations with God, and Bob Monroe’s spiritual and scientific Journeys out of the Body.

Then Oprah (She’s my hero. Ain’t no shame.) chose A New Earth as her book club selection and even went so far as to create an entire web-based class around it. Some girlfriends formed a book club, and so I was introduced to Eckhart Tolle and his theories about the ego and the pain body. Tolle's teachings transformed the way in which I view my lifelong addiction to worry and anxiety. He has taught me the importance of presence.

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron has shaped and enriched my spirit in dramatic fashion. I wouldn’t be on this beautiful island if I hadn’t decided to start her course while visiting ten months ago. Committing to a Morning Pages practice and daring to see myself as an artist sparked a synchronous chain of life changers, and I will never be the same. Leaving my old life was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Exciting yes, but extremely painful at the same time. I left one of my most deeply treasured relationships behind.

But I had to do it. Deep down, in my soul, I know this to be true.

And, so here I am. A young adult holding hands with the spirit of her wondering, magical inner child. Trying now, in cyberspace, to articulate her faith both in and to the universe.

Facing Raw Fish

Hello. My name is Ashley, and I am an ichthyophobe. That is, I have an irrational fear of fish. It’s certainly not the most severe case of this phobia, but it’s enough to limit my contact with the breathtaking ocean filled with sea creatures that surrounds me. In addition to making damn certain that I do not come into physical contact with a fish, I am of course very particular about how I ingest seafood, on the rare occasion that I do. If the supposed "food" resembles a live creature, if for instance the skin or legs or head are still attached, my appetite is sunk. So, it’s not surprising that sushi has never been a dietary option for me.

I feel a tad shameful about this aversion toward eating and touching sea creatures, in part, because sushi is very hip. The elements of design, health, and exoticism appeal to anyone who fancies sophistication, especially in regard to their gastronomic habits. Since I’d like to be both sophisticated and hip, I have tried sushi on a couple occasions. But I hated even the California roll. So, I deduced that I wasn’t a sushi person, not solely because I’m squeamish about fish, but because I don’t like something else foundational about sushi. I blamed it on the seaweed.

Last Friday I progressed a step forward in facing my fish fear when we defied routine and went out for sushi. Mike loves it and hasn’t eaten any in the six months since I’ve been here. So partly for him, I decided to be open to the experience. It helped that Beth is vegan, so I wouldn’t be the only one ordering a vegetarian roll. Since I’d had somewhat of a heavy, late lunch, I wasn’t too worried about not getting full either. Naturally, this is something that would worry me.

Enkai is situated in Frenchtown, but not where all the other restaurants live. Rather, it’s tucked back where the Contiki and other party vessels are docked. The restaurant is open-air, dimly-lit and cozily Asian-inspired. We sit in a row of three at a high table overlooking the dock. A fish swims around a bright light in the water. It’s a big fish. Bigger than a Muskie or a Northern. It looks like a small shark to me. We spot more and more fish until we finally realize that not one, but something like seven fish are swimming around the light. And instead of allowing the fish to stifle my appetite, I opt to relax and enjoy the beauteous moment.

Mike knows what he wants without looking at the menu and insists I try a bite. Since the description of what he orders includes something called eel sauce (a doubly nasty creature, being part fish and part snake) I advise him that the chances of me trying his food are incredibly slim. I ask to please be allowed to simply enjoy my veggie roll tonight. Building an appreciation for seaweed is adventure enough for me right now, thank you very much.

Beth and I split an avocado roll and each order a veggie as well, hers with no dairy please. The sushi rolls are elegantly served—the plate arrangement looks truly like a piece of art. Mike's spicy tuna wrap sits in the center of his plate, framed on the left and right by his highly desired This is How I Roll roll, on the outside of which is draped pink, fresh raw fish of some kind. I think it salmon but later discover it to be tuna. Drizzled artfully over the top is a red sauce, which I suppose somehow contains eel. However, so taken am I by the beauty of the sushi rolls, I don’t really think too much about the eel. It also helps that my ginger mojito is almost completely gone by this point, and I'm fixing to order a glass of white wine.

My fish-free rolls are amazingly delicious and satisfying. I find that I delight in dipping the segments into soy sauce and wasabi paste. And I love the sliver thin slices of fresh ginger. Proving myself a complete sushi novice, I use Beth’s sauce dish for dipping my first couple bites until she points out to me that I have my own bowl in front of me for which to dip. Oops.

Mike is so enthusiastic about his This is How I Roll that he convinces Beth, the devoted vegan, to try a piece. Tempura shrimp and raw tuna with eel sauce definitely fall under the category of animal products, in my mind, and I'm sure Beth's as well. I also know she hasn't forgotten that there is more than likely dairy in the rolls. Oh, the power of persuasian and a well-designed environment...

The bite impresses her. It impresses her so much, in fact, that she has another. And then she joins Mike into pressuring encouraging me to try a piece for myself.

“Just try it, Ash. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t like sushi,” he urges.

“Can’t you just be happy that I’m even eating a vegetable roll?” I say, not unlike a teenager. “It’s progress! Plus, I’m eating with chopsticks too. I haven’t mentioned forks all evening!”

“I just think you’ll like it.” He replies, shrugging.

I look to Beth for support. She doesn’t help.

“Ashley just try a piece. It’s good. It tastes familiar. Like home.”

Somehow this convinces me.

So I let the piece soak in soy sauce and wasabi before popping it in my mouth, trying to sop up as much enjoyable flavor as possible.

But she’s right, it is familiar. And it’s good.

The last time I ate sushi, it tasted like someone had plucked a sea creature and a piece of seaweed from the ocean, rolled it with some rice, and plopped it directly on my plate. But this, this tastes like delicious, warm, flavorful food.

I feel a bit victorious afterward, similar to the proud glow I felt after losing my virginity. Perhaps I’m on my way to becoming one of the cool kids after all.

Hasty Update for Those Who Care

Good Night!

I know. You're thinking, "Why would she start a post with that phrase?" It's a West Indian thing. If you want to start off a relationship well with a local, you had better remember to say Good Morning, Good Afternoon, and Good Night, respectively, when greeting them. And Good Night is said upon approach rather than departure. It takes awhile to get used to. I'm not completely there yet.

It's been a week since I posted, mainly because I've been spending most of my time at my apartment with Mom where you have to walk down our steep driveway and sit at a particular spot on the wall that bisects our little road in order to get AT&T Internet and phone service.

As you may imagine, the wall is not a gentle seat for butts to rest upon.

I wish we had those little bleacher cushions.

Since I'm talking about it and even posted a picture, I might as well tell you the wall's history. At one time this was a singular roadway. But then some new people moved into the neighborhood and started to build houses. Apparently, their heavy construction equipment was ruining the road, which had been built and paid for by the current tenants. A disagreement ensued, and it was taken up with the local courts. The judge ruled that a wall be built down the middle of the road. The new neighbors were to use one side, and the old neighbors the other. And that is the history of our communication bench. Mom spends much time on this wall talking to her man in Oklahoma.

Speaking of Mom, she is currently en route to the leaveless land of Minnesota, where she will be treated for her little spot of breast cancer at Mayo. We have no clue how long she'll be there and what sort of treatment she will endure. We will know more by the end of the week. Neither of us have started worrying about it yet. Hopefully we will refrain altogether, as it will not do her any good. So, if you care about Pam, please send positive, healthy vibes her way instead of nervous, negative ones.

She just texted me from the plane and said she's already missing St. Thomas. Who can blame her with a view like this from our porch?

This picture doesn't do the water justice. Too many clouds.

Still, it's no view to scoff at.

And flowers like this growing in our yard?

Aren't those white mini-flowers delightful?

That's about it for news. My new job as a barista is going well. I am meeting a lot of people, and having a purpose with a paycheck helps my outlook and pocketbook significantly. Learning to do things like make croissant sandwhiches, run a register, and mop properly has a way to bust down my ego, which I think is a good thing. And they are all low-stress tasks. I'm definitely enjoying that part of working while it lasts.

I should hopefully post more often during the next couple weeks because I'll be spending more time at the boyf's where I can connect to the Internet without straddling a concrete wall.

Good Night!

PS. For some reason starting and ending this post with Good Night reminds me of Spanish sentence punctuation. Yeah, I know. You want some of what I'm smoking.

Occupational Euphemisms, Ego Dissolvers, and an Hourly Wage

I am finally hired. In the food industry-- a part of it I never before considered, although making coffee is obviously a better fit for me than waitressing or bartending. You’re reading the blog of a new, full-time barista. It has a sexy ring to it, don’t ya think? I’m glad the title "barista" has entered the mainstream, so I have a hip title. I much prefer it to coffee girl.

The position opened up because Johnny (adorable and sweet as can be) has been promoted to lead bartender at the newly renamed Liquor Box (the Drake’s Passage bar, which the boyf’s good friends happen to own. Everyone is connected down here.). Therefore, his full-time barista position at R&J's Island Latte is available. I didn’t consider this option when I first saw it advertised, since I have never before made coffee drinks. But I need a job. Any job. Staying unemployed will drive me to depression.

Thanks to a gentle kick-in-the-ass pep talk from Mom last Tuesday night, I entered Wednesday determined to be employed week's end. I was getting very close to selling jewelry, which I didn't want to do. If I know anything, it's that I'm not a salesperson, even though I come from a line of them. Like I've said before, wiping asses sounds like more fun to me.

We decided to eat at RJ's for lunch on Wednesday. We entered, and a pretty, light-skinned black lady greeted my mom warmly by name. Mom informed me that she is one of they owners and told me for the tenth time that they are very nice. It occured to me for the first time that I might enjoy working here, and we decided to inquire about Johnny's newly open position.

We find out that it has not been filled, but I need a health card before she will interview me. In order to work in the food industry in the USVI, one must have a valid Health ID or Food Handler’s card. In order to acquire said card, a stool sample must be tested to ensure one doesn't have worms. I ask if it takes a long time to get the card and find out that if I’m fast, I can probably get it within the next twenty-four hours.

“It all just depends on your body,” she says smiling, and gesturing with her hands in a downward motion showing the route that food leaves your body as waste.

“I like this woman,” I think to myself.

So, I embark on an adventure that includes a trip to the communitiy clinic at the hospital, meeting a half-mad woman who nonetheless shows me where the privately-owned labratory is located, obtaining a sample jar, and scooping a sample of my poo from the toilet with the serrated spoon attached to the jar lid. The next day, I'm relieved to discover that my poo is ova and parasite free. The people at the hospital give me a card, even though I couldn’t tell the lady my street number. (Mom keeps telling me it doesn’t matter!) 

After an easy and painless interview, I am hired. My normal hours will be 6:45am to 3:15pm, the earliest I’ve ever worked. I figure it will keep me healthy. I can’t go out late if I have to rise around 5am. The job only pays $10/hr, a sum of which I’m almost embarrassed to mention, except for the fact that I'm trying to dissolve the ole ego. And the tips aren’t nearly what they’d be if I bartended or waitressed. I could  also make more selling jewelry...

Unfortunately for me, I wasn't born with the greedy gene, allowing me to work jobs that I dislike because they pay well...I usually have to do something I find palatable, which generally doesn't include asking for people's money...

I’m thinking that the barista job will be virtually stress free.  My head won’t spin all night with work shit, and the anxiety won’t cause me to drag my feet  in the morning. This means I can spend more energy doing what I love, which is to write.

I will probably have to get a 2nd gig. And I have some options. But the whole thing is a pride-swallower, since I’ll be earning half what I did in MN, and will also have no benefits and no 401K.

But then I remind myself that this is an adventure. I am young. And learning to live simply is valuable-- thinking of abundance in a way that has more to do with small daily joys instead of purchasing power.

Plus, they're training me to make all sorts of cool coffee drinks. So, I am learning a new trade. Now, there's a better word for that...we'll call it a craft.

All We Have is Now (thank you Flaming Lips)

The following is one of my favorite pictures. I didn't take it in the Caribbean, but rather at the Bonnaroo festival outside of Manchester, TN in 2008. A delightful wall surrounds the grounds and is covered with graffiti-style portraits of music icons and other bits of art and wisdom offered by festival patrons.  

The mispellings don't even bother me.

That's how much I like it.

I loved this proverb because it's a punchy, scatalogical summary of Eckhart Tolle's primary teaching. (Isn't it fun when the obscene and the divine co-mingle?) I, along with millions of other Oprah fans (ain't no shame) and spiritual seekers, had been studying Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. I was really struck by his observation of how most people spend the majority of their lives in their head, either reliving past experiences or worrying over future ones, and thereby not truly being in the one moment we ever have in life, which is the present one. Well, I certainly recognized myself in this description.

While we were studying this particular part of the book, I discovered the same message in the lyrics to a Flaming Lips song that I'd listened to many times before without every really thinking about what it meant.
The song is aptly named, "Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell"-- the ego being an entity much discussed in Tolle's teachings. One night while listening to my headphones during the long trek down the hall to my old apartment building's laundry room, I noticed that the lyrics seemed to speak to this exact same idea.

I was waiting on a moment

But the moment never came

All the billion other moments

Were just wasting all away

I must have been tripping

Just ego tripping

                         

I listened to the song for days. It was a rock and roll balm. I listened in my car, in my bedroom, and on my mp3 player when necessary-- trying desperately to remind myself to embody the present moment in a way that I will listen. I have no idea what Wayne Coyne had in mind when he wrote those lyrics. To me, hearing them that night in the stuffy corridor of my Minneapolis apartment complex was a little bit of synchronicity, the universe pointing out something that might be able to help me enjoy this life a bit more.


For the last couple of days, I've been listening to an interview with Eckhart Tolle by Krista Tippett on Speaking of Faith. This has been after taking a long Tolle break for reasons I won't elaborate upon at the moment. I enjoyed hearing his soothing, yoda-like voice again, teaching his lessons in a way that makes them seem so simple. He mentioned using what he calls a pointer when you notice you're in a state of mental suffering. This is something to ask yourself when you feel stress or anxiety settle in your body. "What is my relationship with the present moment right now? Am I friends with the present moment or are we enemies?"  This pointer has, indeed, been helpful to me, albeit far from a magic bullet.

My decision to move to St. Thomas is for some reason wrapped up with my desire for living an anxiety free life. (This might be considered ironic since moving here has conjured up a host of fresh worries). I realized the other day that there will always be something for me to worry about. Right now I'm worried about not getting a job down here (since we already know my last resort option of bartending is out) and not being able to pay my bills...those student loans for the college degree that I so value but don't seem to be using. Soon I will be employed, and my current worry will no longer be valid. By that time something else will have me worried. Some drama at work or perhaps worrying that I'm not doing a good enough job. Or something will occur in my family life. The point is, you can always find things to worry about. Me especially; I've been a pro since childhood. So the key is not to just solve whatever it is that worries me right now, but to discover a way of living in which anxiety has no part.

We're working on it...
And by "we", I mean the royal collection of voices in my head.