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

F*** You, Rogers and Hammerstein!

When I told people I planned to spend Thanksgiving in Oklahoma, I generally received one of two single-word reactions. Either “Oklahoma?” expressed with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. Or my less-preferred response, namely, the person breaking out in a show tune, the title of which I don’t think it necessary to specify. Said song never failed to subsequently get stuck on repeat in my head. 

Besides spending a few days with Mom (always enjoyable and the whole point of the trip), I enthused myself about spending five days in a place to which I’d never had an inkling of desire to visit, by expecting it to at least be blogworthy. My experience in Oklahoma would prove to be so ass backwards, so different from either my upper Midwestern or island home, that it would make an amusing blog post. And in this regard, I’m sorry to say, I have few worthy anecdotes.

Perhaps my favorite observation was a useful reminder of the beauty of unfettered, childlike enthusiasm. On the short flight from Dallas to Tulsa, I was wholly entertained and touched by an endless conversation between three little kids sitting in the two rows ahead of me. These kids could not have been more excited to be flying to our destination. One little girl was especially vocal and surprisingly verbal for how young she looked.  She kept saying in a tiny squeak of a voice, “We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma! We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma!”

I told her mother that I’d never heard anyone so pumped about visiting Oklahoma. I must say that it pepped me up about the prospect of spending five days in a state I’d previously categorized as boring and stupid. (Which, I must admit is rather hypocritical of me, having always been supremely annoyed at this very same attitude towards Iowa.) When the flight landed, a pudgy-faced boy circa eight-years-old popped his head over the seat two rows in front of me to greet Lil Miss Chatty behind him.

“Hi!” he said, practically bursting with good cheer.

“Hi!” she said back. “You have a happy Thanksgiving, okay?”

“Thanks! I’m gonna have a happy Thanksgiving! You have a happy Thanksgiving too!” he responded with such a sincere and precious joyousness that I almost exploded from sheer delight. Interacting with children usually works for me as an effective form of psychological birth control, but these sweeties actually made me look forward to one day being a mother.

Kids have access to this vast reserve of enthusiasm from which adults seem to have lost touch. I remember the feeling. Well, it’s hard to conjure the exact sensation, but I know I've experienced it. As a child, looking so forward to the next day’s events that I could scarcely sleep. So rare is this feeling anymore, that when I catch a whisp of it...a glimmer of that pure excitement, I try to stay in that spot. Or follow it if it moves. It was, in part, this fleeting state of enthusiasm that I trailed to St. Thomas.

And I’ll tell ya this much, that feeling sure as hell ain’t gonna send my ass to Oklahoma. Don’t get me wrong, Tulsa seemed fine. While there, we managed to locate the only independent record store as well as a rare metaphysical/New Age shop: two Ashley-appreciated amenities. Tulsa really felt no different than the rural, middle-American cities of Des Moines and Omaha. And visiting was a good, if unnecessary, reminder of the types of places I never want to live. 

Another, perhaps more necessary, reminder came on Thanksgiving Day, which we spent at Mom’s man’s daughter’s house. She is a lovely woman about a year older than me. And she has a husband, a baby, and a very nice suburban home in one of those treeless neighborhoods where all the newly-built houses look exactly the same. In other words, she’s much further along in her life than I am.

But…BUT…this is what I walked away from a year and a half ago. A beautiful domesticated life. And being faced with what my future would have looked like if I’d stayed on that path, I’m glad I made the change. It was most definitely right for me. Since I wasn’t entirely sure about this when I visited the states six months ago, I appreciated the opportunity to confirm the wisdom of my actions.

More affirmations of being on the right path came during a tarot card reading. I like to get them every few months whenever I feel stuck or need some guidance. I’ve found readings to be exponentially more helpful than most therapy sessions I’ve attended (excluding the few I had with Julia before moving to STT). As soon as I walked in the room, Ms. Dreamkeeper told me I needed to deal with the paperwork I’d been procrastinating on. She was right. I’ve been putting off dealing with both the STT BMV and the MN DOT for weeks/months now. I needed that little kick in the ass.

We talked about many things, and I daresay, she was accurate on most. Tarot card readings usually work for me. I’ve taken friends with before, and they have later said, “That reading was shit,” which is disappointing since I usually find them so helpful. Perhaps because I go into them without skepticism. I’m always told that I’m easy to read for because I’m so open. I expect to be helped, and so I am. Usually far more than I’d be after months of expensive therapy.

In this particular tarot reading, the most affirming bit came when I asked if writing this book about St. Thomas is what I’m supposed to be focusing on right now. The next card she flipped over contained one item: a book.

Thank you, Universe, for the clear communication! 


P.S. My mom looks great! She has a chic, post-chemo hair-cut and is now rocking an auburn color instead of the blonde highlights that she wore for so long. She is mom to four very sweet Yorkshire Terriers. Because they are ridiculously small, I refer to them as The Vermin. She spends much of her time herding this vermin. Two members of the pack are 9-week old puppies, Slug and Izzie. I chose Slug as my bed partner. His preference was to sleep in the crook of my neck, which I found not at all unpleasant.

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.

Is the Corolla a Klutz? Or is it Me?

Since moving here just over a year ago, I've had nine flat tires. Yes, that's right. Nine a 'dem. I was even fortunate enough to enjoy three in one week—all separate tires!

The first of the bunch occurred pretty much a year ago exactly. And of course, both Mom and Mr. T. happened to be off island. So, alone and very St. Thomas fresh, my non-mechanical ass had to figure out how to get the tire repaired without anyone holding my hand.

Which isn't to say that no one helped me. R. at the Island Latté inflated my tire with his compressor brought by J. from home. He also recommended a repair place in town, across from the old cemetery with the aboveground graves. I drove by the shop twice without noticing it. I don't know what I expected; something looking more like a legitimate business and less like a lean-to with an empty office attached, I guess. Next door sat a mini-mart with what seemed like two separate loitering stations in the parking lot. One for dominos...and one for, well...sitting.

During this initial visit to the repair shop, I made two ahfta-noon friends. Julian, an older gentleman with a cane, bought me a Presidente’ and offered conversation while I waited. He talked of growing up on the island, getting shot in Vietnam, and working locally as a chef. When I told him I wanted to write a book about St. Thomas, he expressed immediate concern that I would focus soley on the negative aspects of his home. I assured him (and made a commitment to myself) that this was, in no way, my intent. I am interested in the whole spirit of the Virgin Islands, most of which really doesn't suck. How and why people get drawn in...why some never leave and others flee. Julian was one of the first locals that I conversed with. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him at the shop again, but I did meet his brother there once.

The other ahfta-noon friend was a street rasta who I'm sure said something about my beauty (it's really nothing special about me, I assure you) and then presented me with this charming flower creation:

Cool, huh? Tourists have to pay for them.

Last summer, while getting two tires replaced at the same establishment, I noticed an abandoned stroller in the group of rag tag chairs at the sitting station. The stroller was positioned in a way that suggested it sometimes functioned as an extra piece of furniture. Feeling brave, I thought it fun to plop down in the child carrier and join the men for a little Sunday morning communion. Admittedly, they seemed a bit wary of a stateside girl with a pit bull mix entering their territory. But they were amused when I asked if this gathering was their version of church.



Yes, that's moi in the stroller. Guard dog to my right.


On another radiant Sunday morning last month, I discovered my 8th flat tire outside the Meerkat's house.

Ain't she a beaut?

He was away on business, so once again, I had no man to help solve my problem. With most of the day stretched before me until my evening shift at the pub, I decided it was time for me to change a tire. This being my 8th in a year and all. (Yes, if you’re keeping track, I have had a flat since…) I watched a how-to on You Tube, found readable instructions as well, and set about the task.

Cranking the jack took an inordinate amount of time and copious sweating, grunting, and swearing.

I really don't think it's supposed to be so taxing a process. 

Hershey offers his assistance.

The most difficult part turned out to be removing the lug nuts. Oh my. Luckily, I was parked next to a railing that I leaned on while jumping up and down on the wrench. Never, ever ever have I ever felt so light and airy. And...I was successful at removing but one lug nut with my weight alone. Fortunately, a frantic search for WD-40 proved successful, and dousing the lugs with lube got those babies a-movin’. Let me tell you, I have an entirely new respect for this basic household product.

The rest of the process was pretty easy. My hands got dirty, but it was a satisfying kind of dirty.

Photographic Evidence

As silly as it sounds (and yes, you all have license to tease me), changing this tire was an empowering new victory for me. A small step toward realizing my true strength and potential.

And of course by the time I finally got out to the pool, it clouded over and soon started to rain.

Don't let him fool you. He's scared to swim.

Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 4: Conclusion of the Moment

Despite my new appreciation for consumer convenience, a litter-free landscape, seasons, and access to my indie rock habit, what I miss most about the Midwest are my kith. I still love my friends. And they still seem to love me. Thankfully (and not to my surprise), we picked up where we left off. Clicking into the intimate rhythm of true friendship after months or years with slight communication is a top friend criterion for me because (as you likely know) I’m an embarrassingly pathetic correspondent. Infrequent but very involved face to face communication is highly preferred to regular phone chats. For reasons I don't pretend to understand, fifteen minutes on the phone and I'm a claustrophobic mess.

Interested in what I’m up to? Don’t expect a return email or phone call, simply check my blog. Your updates are accepted via text, which is also how you're most likely to receive a response. I realize this is a shitty, narcissistic and very millennial arrangement, my friends. And I am sorry. I don't know how to change.

Since I know some of you are anxious for me to return to this topic…Yes, I still love the Ex too. And I tried to rekindle our relationship because it became even clearer during my visit that he really is one in a million. My attempts were kindly met with resistance. I know he still loves me in some fashion, but he's not in love with me, which is probably wise on his part.

On my part, there was much emoting. I may have been the teary-eyed bridesmaid…But it ended on a positive note. Thankfully, talking through what happened to us a year earlier (Ahem. What I did to end our four-year relationship a year earlier.) proved therapeutic. When he dropped me at the airport, an unexpected serenity filled me. A grace granted as peace. And I'm happy to report that the weeping spells have ceased.

Ah…
I tell you, the process of acceptance and release is golden.
Totally worth the preceding heartache and torment.
And, I can say with confidence, we’re both moving on healthily
… as friends.

Another thing that became clearer to me, but that I’m still trying to articulate properly, is the feeling of authenticity I get from people and places in St. Thomas that I miss at home in the Midwest. Which is strange since the island itself is the subject of so many a fantasy. Stateside places, suburbia and exurbia specifically, are nowhere lands. Near identical to any American town, character and charm are spare. People busily go about their days making little eye contact or conversation with those around them. Plus, compared to people in the VI, Midwesterners are SO darn reserved… and, dare I say at the risk of offense, a bit boring? Many of my friends excluded, of course.

I revel in the unexpected quirky surprises that make island life so spirited. For example, in the St. Thomas Kmart, people sing and dance to the Beyonce or Rihanna playing over the loudspeakers. (Except on Sunday when the soundtrack tends to be gospel.) People recognize friends and call out the island version of how are you: “You okay?” Jokes are cracked and laughter erupts. I fail to recall such public displays of vivacity and mirth back home.

Of course, numerous are the inconveniences and ass pains of living in the Virgin Islands. And there is a lot that will break your heart if you do any looking around. Some residents constantly bitch about these things, which I find increasingly irritating the more I grow to love this place. Especially if its lobbed with good ole American arrogance. Sure, I complain at times. But I try to vent, accept, and move forward. I’m mostly still entertained by life here and am rarely bored… I guess because living on a Caribbean island is still a novelty.

Back home is old news. The norm. What I’ve always known.

So it's not necessarily the Midwest's fault that I find the Caribbean so genuinely fascinating in comparison.  But shit...it was enough for me— a NON-risk-taker—to quit my old life and move here to write about the place. A lot of people who move here are not only not interested in the culture, but are actually rather annoyed by it. My opinion is if they don't like it h'eh, they should return to Akron or Buffalo or Vegas or from wherever it is they emigrated. St. Thomas so inspires and fills my heart with gladness on a daily basis. It’s eccentricities and history, the in and outflow of diverse peoples, the laid back vibe, the breathtaking vistas…I want to soak it all up…like when, after a long, frigid winter, I savored the first hot sunny rays to touch my alabaster skin. (Of course, it’s been well over a year since I enjoyed this particular sensation.)

I also realized while in Minnesota that I really do love Minneapolis. It still feels like home to me. But St. Thomas feels more like home all the time too. Which leads me to wonder, what exactly constitutes home? It’s a weighty question, I know. One for which I have no easy answer. But I think a person can feel at home in more than one place on earth. Ironically, one’s place of birth or youth often fails to invoke a sense of comfort or familiarity. This is certainly true for me, as neither the town I grew up in nor the town of my roots feel like home in the least. In fact, I avoid visiting these places because of their tendency to lull me into a vague state of depression.

So, while I still really love Minneapolis and it still feels like home in a lot of ways, I know that I’m not yet ready to return. My loved ones, of course, wanted to know when I’m coming back. (Not before you visit, bitches!) All I could say with any certainty was that I needed at least another year in St. Thomas. Maybe more. My Caribbean journey is not complete. In many ways, I feel like I’m just now getting settled… and started. Just now collecting the creative and spiritual energy I came here to cultivate. I know that when the time comes for me to move on, the directive will be deep down clear…a gut-level, intuitive knowing. It certainly won’t come solely from that insufferable source of all logic and rationale- my head.

Sorry parents, but this soul-searching adventure ain't over yet!

Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 3: Diversity

Growing up in the Midwest, I was pretty much constantly surrounded by middle-class white people. Sure, my niece is of mixed race… and one of my good high school friends is Korean. The token over-achieving, highly intelligent black kid in school hung with our group of friends occasionally. But really, the dominate culture was white—ranging from the trashy to that of the country club variety, but basically very very white. Except, you know, everyone listened to rap and hip hop. Most of the black people from my hometown lived in the segregated river bottoms known officially as Pleasant Valley but lovingly referred to by all as The Flats. White kids from the North side of town were generally scared to enter The Flats, especially at night. It was the stuff of double-dares, lost bets, juvenile delinquency, scandal, and rebellion.

My small, private Lutheran college in NE Iowa had intense Norwegian roots, and was thus, also an overwhelmingly white community. But thankfully, much more progressive than the town of my youth. There were a handful of African Americans, but racial minorities were mostly a mix of International students. They had a small but solid population on campus, which consisted of specific cafeteria tables, the far corner of the dance bar, and certain sections in the library. I got to know this crowd more personally when I dated a guy from India. I found the encounter with other cultures immensely stimulating, which I’d like to think was part of my attraction to this particular person in the first place.

At my post-college job in Minnesota, all but maybe 5 of the 50 employees were white. And while I truly cared for the majority of my coworkers, I also found them incredibly boring. Little surprised me about their white, working-man lifestyles. But it's no shock that this mash potato culture felt too familiar and stale; I’d been steeped in it my whole life.

In St. Thomas, for the first time, I am a racial minority. And you know what? Not only does it not bother me in the least, but I rather enjoy the change. This became very clear during my Minnesota visit. It became so clear, in fact, that I used it as part of my stock sound bite when people asked what I enjoy about living on the island. The varying reactions to this comment offered great amusement.

In some ways, St Thomas is like a microcosm of the American melting pot myth, but instead of stretching across thousands of square miles of terrain, we’re all smashed together on an island that takes up less space than a small American city. My brother (the first of our clan to live in the VI) has compared St. Thomas to Manhattan, which is perhaps, a more accurate analogy than to the whole of the United States. Either way, we are an absolute mish-mash of cultures here; and it’s hard to avoid each other when you live on a speck.

I enjoy the island’s diversity most when working in the coffee shop downtown. The multitude of accents is a lingual symphony for my ears. My regular customers are local West Indians, some local Frenchies, a lot of Eastern Indians who own and work in jewelry stores, Arabs who own myriad businesses, scads of American transplants from all over the states, some Europeans, tons of people from the Dominican Republic (locally known as “Santos”), Puerto Ricans, Caribbean people from down island, a few from Africa... And this doesn’t even cover my daily encounters with tourists who flock to St. Thomas from all over the world.

Because of this multi-cultural interaction, I know that English people refer to potato chips as “crisps.” Continentals rarely tip because it's not part of the service industry in Europe. “Sorbeto” means “straw” in Spanish. Caribbean people from down island refer to all hot drinks as “tea,” so if they order “chocolate tea,” what they most likely want is hot chocolate.

“Shukron,” means, “thank you,” in Arabic, and we miss our loyal next door customers during Ramadan. They return to the coffee shop after a month looking both slim and cleansed.

Puerto Ricans prefer warm milk in their coffee, so it’s best to ask if they want leché calienté when they order to avoid them bringing you their tiny cups to tell you that it’s frio. (They tend to buy 8oz cups and fill them with equal parts coffee and milk. Since our milk is chilled, this significantly reduces the temperature of their café con lechés.)

Sure, these are all mere tiny (yet helpful) cultural tidbits, but from them I take true delight.

You know something else I just realized about all these cultures living together in St. Thomas? It’s really peaceful for the most part. Yeah, I hear complaints from various residents about ethnic groups other than their own— mostly stemming from frustration, ignorance, and stereotypes. Nothing new there. But the high percentage of violent crime in the Virgin Islands is rarely cross-cultural. Most violence is either domestic in nature, or drug-related and between young men who from h’eh. Okay, so it’s a faint silver lining, but it's visible if you focus hard and squint.

As someone who is curious about diverse cultures and people, living in a place where I frequently engage with a mix of ethnicities is invigorating. What's better is that we can usually talk about (and even laugh at) our differences matter-of-factly without worrying about coming across as racist. I have no problem being identified as the "white girl" at the coffee shop because...well, it's true. People here are often described by their ethnicity or skin color, not because it's the only thing people notice about one another, but rather it's an easy and accurate way to physically describe someone. So why try to vaguely describe a tall, mustached fellow without describing his skin tone as light or dark or white or explain that he's Indian? To people who aren't comfortable talking about race, this can seem rude or distatesful. But my experience here is more that it's simply useful. People have different skin tones. No need to be blind to it. We jus made dat way, ya know.

Obviously, I’m not ready to go back to Whiteville yet…maybe not ever. (Which is not to say that I’m planning to settle here either.) If and when I do return to the states, I won’t be able to live in the suburbs or a small town. For true. While there is diversity in Minneapolis, it’s far more segregated, due in large part to all the available space, which allows for highway chasms to separate neighborhoods.

When my brother spent VI slow season working in Minneapolis, he often bitched about the lack of human color in our midst. He quickly grew weary of white people. Now I finally get it.

Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 1

At a lovely (and sweaty) ceremony in her grandparents’ Lutheran country church, my dear friend Alissa married her beloved Michael on Memorial Day weekend. The occasion brought a perfect reason to visit my homeland after nine months of living in the Caribbean. Especially because Lissa let me be a bridesmaid.

Was she not a stunning bride?

As the trip drew near, I became increasingly convinced that it was necessary for some self-revelatory purpose. I expected all the ways in which I’d grown to become clear, revealing luminous new insights into my journey.

Much of this had to do with seeing my ex again. We have the same friends, so I knew we would encounter one another plenty. He even DD’d the bachelorette party! The closer it came to the trip, the more urgently I needed to release the overwhelming emotion that had amassed during the past year. It churned inside me, like a pregnant thundercloud, to the point that sixty seconds of thinking about our former relationship induced thirty minutes of weeping. Like an overdue mother, I desperately wanted to squat in the corner and get the thing out of me. It needed to end.

Of course, on a less introspective level, I merrily awaited the wedding festivities and some much needed quality time with loved ones, Mom included. And the shopping. It was imperative that I shop. Even though I am relatively poor, I needed some new clothes, and St. Thomas is about the least economical place to acquire them. Which brings me to the first comparison at hand: the consumer experience.

After living in St. Thomas, mainland shopping is simply sublime. The marketplace—clean, bright, open, and laden with choice—easily seduces my inner capitalist consumer…which probably bears direct relation to my hunting and gathering ancestors. Products in appealing packages call out like inanimate sirens enticing me to place them in my bulky red cart by promising to improve my life for only $8.99. Stateside shopping has everything that St. Thomas shopping does not: affordability, order, consistency, and variety. And that’s why we love American capitalism, right? For the big box marketplace saturated with options, but bereft of all surprise and local character. I am guilty as charged.

Okay, so it’s not really too surprising that the mainland offers better shopping than an island. But the difference in price is jarring, even though it’s understandable. Nothing is manufactured in St. Thomas, so all goods are shipped from elsewhere, thereby involving additional transit costs. Also—and this is one of my favorite things about St. Thomas—we have the most expensive utilities in the United States. By 300%.

No, I didn’t accidentally add a zero.

Therefore, all businesses have higher operating costs than they would stateside, especially if they rely on coolers and freezers to preserve product. These two factors—and maybe others of which I’m ignorant—add roughly 30% to all island goods. So, while most people make around 30% less than they would in the states, they spend about 30% more to live. And more people keep coming! Even if large numbers of them don’t last long.

The Neutrogena face wipes that I use are over nine dollars in St. Thomas at Kmart. At Target in Minnetonka, they cost five and change. There are deals in the states where you can buy four frozen pizzas for $10, what you might spend for one at Plaza Extra. I met a friend for lunch my first day back in the cities at a restaurant I lived five minutes from for two years but never patronized because I figured it was too expensive (even though I made more money at the time). It was so interesting to see that the lunch menu prices were comparable to one of the least expensive family restaurants on the island. Although the beer cost more.

I’ve always said, and I’ll repeat myself plenty with this one, the only goods cheaper in St. Thomas than stateside are your vices: alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs.

On Spirituality and Religion, Part 4: Why Claiming to be Spiritual but not Religious Goes Beyond Glib Identification

During a recent episode of Speaking of Faith, host Krista Tippett asked guest Robert Wright his opinion on the increasingly popular “trend” of people professing to be spiritual, but not religious. I perceived an attitude from both parties that this is sort of a laughable cliché espoused by the superficial.

And I suppose Mr. Seversen would agree.

But I disagree. And I disagree, strongly.

People describe their spiritual life in this manner for reasons that run much deeper than trendiness and ease. We connect more with our global community every day, allowing us to discover that our own religion doesn’t hold the only truth that resonates within us. We identify less with the constructs of religion yet still feel the presence of a higher power in our lives. We feel the current of a larger, Universal truth running beneath our everyday reality. We’ve been exposed to numerous religious and spiritual traditions, and are able to glean what works for us to create a personal spirituality.

I find nothing silly or cliché about this so-called trend. I actually find it rather hopeful that we are beginning to see beyond the doctrines of our particular religions to the Universal beliefs at the core of most traditions. Our minds are opening, and so are our hearts.

When the topic of one’s religious or spiritual life enters the conversation, how should people respond who are nonreligious, but believe in life beyond the physical? Something to the tune of “Well, I believe in a Higher Power, but not the kind of god I learned about growing up…I guess you could say I’m spiritual, but not religious,” doesn’t sound shallow or faddish to me. It certainly requires more thought than saying, “I’m Catholic,” or “I’m a Muslim,” or, “I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,"

Let’s look at two definitions for the terms in discussion, courtesy of dictionary.com:

Religion.
#1: “a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, esp. when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs.”

Spirituality.
#2: “of or pertaining to the spirit or soul, as distinguished from the physical nature: a spiritual approach to life.’

While this definition of spirituality is certainly concise, I think it nicely encapsulates my own spiritual life. In regard  to religion, I suppose the spirituality I’ve described in these last few posts does contain a vague set of beliefs regarding the cause, nature, and purpose of the Universe. But it’s definitely fluid and open in nature. I have no name for it, no sacred text, and no religious leader, or set of practices to follow. My moral code consists of the golden rule.

Does what I describe sound like religion to you?

How do you describe yourself spiritually?

On Spirituality and Religion, Part 3: Statement of Faith

By their very nature, spiritual beliefs are difficult to verbalize. Ironically, in being articulated and thus distilled to a level of human understanding, their spiritual essence is removed. Which is probably why I avoided this part of my spirituality series, if I may call it such. Following is my attempt to articulate the ineffable. Per usual, I use more words than necessary.

Everything is connected.
Humans. Animals. Plants. Weather. Oceans. Nature. Politics. Wars. Diseases. Miracles. Violence. Love.
Everything. Everything. Is. Connected.

What appears to be many is actually one.
Which is why everything is connected.
It really is One Love, mon.
God is the one. Everything else, the many.
So whether we realize it or not, we are one with God or Goddess or Source or Allah. God doesn’t care the name we use.

Living beings have souls—an eternal essence of who we are existing beyond life and death, time and space. We can always access this part of our being, although it is extremely hard for most of us to do. Meditation quiets and stills our human minds so we can chill with our eternal, peaceful soul for awhile.

We live more than one life on this, and perhaps other, earths.

Our time on earth is an opportunity for our souls to grow and evolve.

Heaven and hell do not exist in the traditional manner. We may experience an expected version of heaven or hell after we die, but it is neither for reward nor punishment, neither is it an eternal state.

What we offer to the world is offered back to us.
We often refer to this as karma.

Our inner experience is mirrored in our outer world. If you feel shitty about yourself and believe others are out to get you, your experience will certainly confirm it.


The Golden Rule is cool…
Do unto others as you would have done unto you.
I will go further and say that
In a larger sense, which we may not readily perceive,
What we do unto others, we also do unto ourselves.

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.

Fleas and Ticks Jump Everywhere

Never did I expect to be one who de-ticks dogs with ungloved fingers.

I’ve always been the squeamish of the squeam when it comes to creepy crawlies. Well into my twenties, I still cannot kill bugs mainly because the thought of getting that close and feeling their body crushed beneath my fingers makes me flap my hands and fake-gag.

However, I must say that I’m cohabitating with insects better now than at any previous point in my life. (My boyfriend, Mike, doesn’t fully appreciate this fact, never having known me before.)

But now I have two dogs that spend most of their time outdoors. And, as you may have guessed by now, they’ve acquired ticks. And when I say they’ve acquired ticks, I mean that we have a tick infestation. They have ticks between their toes, ticks in their ear folds, ticks on their eyelids, ticks in their armpits, and most concerningly, ticks on their bungholes.

We have ticks on the walls, ticks on our sheets, ticks on our bedroom floor, and ticks in the laundry hamper.

I bemoaned the ticks for a few days, trying unsuccessfully to inspire Mike to take some time out of his legitimately busy schedule to help me exterminate the problem.

I even found ticks crawling up my legs, an event that didn’t phase him in the least. I think, upon complaining, he absently said something along the lines of, “That’s gross, baby.”

And then one evening while lying in bed, Mike discovered a tick crawling on him. Suddenly, he felt boldly determined to fix the tick problem once and for all, declaring,

“We have to figure out this tick problem. Like tomorrow. We can’t live like this. Yuck Ash, this is gross.” He shuddered, as if he had to convince me of something I didn’t already know.

Now, I have been picking at the ticks since their arrival. My ape-like fascination with ridding unwanted items from the body is beneficial in this situation. Ticks, hair follicles, blackheads, ear wax— I easily become obsessed with removal.

But the ticks are thick and getting thicker. Mere picking will not solve this problem.

Spraying does little good, especially since Harley flees from the blue bottle of tick killer. Tweezers work quite well if I catch the dogs while they’re relaxed. I am truly a plucking pro. But mostly the tweezers just make the dogs understandably nervous and squirmy, creating a two-person task out of the deal. Plus, it’s harder to tell the difference between a blood-pregnant tick and a dog- nipple when using a tweezers. I only had to make this unfortunate mistake once…

So, I’ve gotten to the point where if the dogs are near, I’ll pull ticks off with my fingers. I’ll even keep two or three pinched between my index and middle finger until I can walk over to the tick bowl of torture and flick them inside to be squirted with the blue bottle. They can’t avoid my aim, and I can’t hear any cries of misery as they drown in poison.

I’ve observed some interesting things about ticks. For instance, the gray prune-like ones, grotesquely plump with blood, will sink to the bottom of the toilet when thrown into the bowl. But the small black ones will swim nimbly to the water’s edge and climb out if you don’t flush quickly enough. They’re resilient little bastards.

And it’s funny how ticks make fleas seem so benign. When I first arrived on island, I was devastated when Harley caught fleas from a stray dog that hung around for awhile. But since the tick infestation, I barely even notice the fleas. If someone points them out to me, I’ll likely respond, “Oh, it’s just a flea. It won’t hurt anything.”

That I can pick ticks off the dogs and walls with my fingers and hold onto them until discarding in the next room shows the severity of the problem, but more importantly, it shows growth on my part.

A few nights ago Mike and I sat at the dinner table. We were pretty much done eating and sort of lulling about before we went on being productive again. Harley approached, as he often does, and I noticed a fat, juicy tick on his back. I attacked it with zest, easily plucking it off his body.

“Ashley, that’s gross.”

I held up the tick between my fingers, filled to blue plumpness with Harley’s blood. Its legs, which looked comically small and worthless, especially compared to their strength and ability in an un-saturated tick, wriggled about helplessly.

“It reminds me of the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka,” I said, amused.

“Ashley, that’s disgusting,” Mike said with no small amount of revulsion. “You don’t pick ticks at the dinner table! Yuck. I guess I’m done eating tonight.”

And then he performed the same bit of facial drama I’ve always displayed in the presence of bugs.

He fake-gagged.

This, my friends, was a first. I never before have grossed-out another individual by my handling of an insect or any such small and wiggly inhabitant of this earth.

And yes, in my world, this is definitely growth.