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

Ashley's Dog Hershey Finally Declared Useful

“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Budget, and I’m looking for a new home. I used to live on a boat, and that was okay, but I didn’t have enough room to run and play…” 

It continued in grievously adorable fashion. The picture was one of those atrocious animal shots taken from above showing only a very dark blob that I presumed was the dog in question. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t make out his features. I was already in love.

It was Monday morning, and I had spotted the Humane Society ad in the Daily News less than 24 hours after deciding to adopt a dog. The impetus being to provide a companion for my then boyfriend’s endearing but massive and overzealous Weimaraner who desperately needed a playmate. I found it difficult to write in the evenings with a 90 pound dog constantly climbing onto my lap.  

Budget stayed on my mind all week. I couldn’t get to the Humane Society to meet him because they closed before my shift ended at the coffee shop. I called several times to make sure he was still there. I hoped to meet him over the weekend. But when I called on Friday afternoon, they told me Budget had left for a family visit. I could try back the next day in case he and the family dog didn't get along.

Now, I’m not the follow-up type.  I have to be extraordinarily moved to make that 2^nd phone call. Well, I was thusly moved that Saturday, and my instincts proved accurate. Budget and the other dog didn’t play well. He was back at the kennel. They'd be open for an hour if I wanted to pick him up for a visit. 

Budget was eager to be free. He ran toward us as if his life depended on it. And I suppose it did. The instant we took him outside he lifted his leg and peed on Mr. T’s ankle. 

Nevertheless, I refused to let Budget sit in the truck bed on the way home. He sat in the cab with us, practically on my lap, but since he was half the size of Harley, he felt like a lap dog. It took about thirty seconds of riding together to realize this was a SWEET dog. He leaned into me, emanating love. 

I swiftly decided that he was a keeper. However, I was not-so-swiftly discovering that Mr. T. & I were not keepers—at least as far as the other was concerned. So, I made sure to pay for Budget and to put my name on his adoption papers. My little black bundle of love and I were going to be partners until one of us left this earth. Dammit.

We’ve been together for over two years now. Today he’s known as Hershey…with an aka of “Budget”. He needed a new loving name for a new loving life, but I decided to keep Budget as a street name. After all, what’s a Thomian street dog without a Thomian street name?

I’ve known that Hershey is special since the day we met. His little doggie body just feels good! When he leans against my leg to let me know he’s there, I feel loving energy flow into me. Other people have pointed this out too. One recent guest—a delightful acupuncturist from NYC—wrote in the guestbook that, “Hershey speaks a special language…the language of touch.” Thank you, Denise, for using those words to describe his essence.

I’ve always felt that Hershey and I were brought together to take care of one another. But it occurred to me during a Reiki session with another recent guest that perhaps Hershey entered my life to teach me a few things too.

We were using my bedroom for the healing session. Before beginning, she asked my spirit guides and angels to enter the room with us for protection and guidance. At that very moment, Hershey quietly walked into the room, gently sniffed my guest’s leg, and curled up in the corner where he stayed for the entire hour. 

Hmmm…I thought…maybe Hershey is an older and wiser soul than I’ve given him credit for. 

In the few months since that day, it’s become clear that Hershey does, indeed, have valuable lessons to offer. If, that is, I can suspend my ego mind long enough to entertain the notion that a dog is one of my teachers.  Here are ten lessons I’ve learned from him so far.

Greet strangers as friends. If they become friends, great! If not, oh well. Move on.

Hershey loves everybody. And assumes everybody loves him. Most people do grow fond of him. Some love him instantly as I did. And those who don’t like Hershey…well that has far more to do with what’s going on inside them than it has to do with any of Hershey’s qualities. He doesn’t take it personally. He just moves on to the next experience, and lets it go. 

If you are injured, tired, or sick…let yourself rest.  

Hershey doesn’t push or strive. He instinctively paces himself.  If we’re on a walk and he’s tired, he’ll lie down. Won’t move. Not til he’s ready to go again. No ego voice tells him that he doesn’t have time to rest or that he should be stronger and more resilient than he is. Or that he’s lazy. Nope. If he has a sore paw or if he exhausted himself playing at the beach…he rests and recovers appropriately. Without guilt. He knows innately when rest is required. 

Nap during the hottest time of day. 

Everything else you undertake will be miserable anyway. And the siesta will make you more alert and productive during the cool, comfortable evening hours.

Don’t take every scolding or criticism to heart. 

Hershey’s stock response to discipline is to yawn and look the other way. If I keep going, he will usually play the cute submissive card, and offer up his belly for a rub.  

*Yawn.*   “I really can’t be bothered with your yammering about the tipped over trash. What did you expect? I’m a dog. You left me alone, and there were leftovers in the garbage can. Why don’t you just come over here and rub my belly? It’ll make us both feel better.” 

Never has this response on his part resulted in more severe punishment on my part. (Damn little Hershey Squirt.) But feeling resentment, guilt and lack of self-worth for hours or days would not improve his situation. Nor does it ever improve ours. 

Ask for what you want. 

Hershey doesn't fear letting me know that he expects a treat after his walk. And when he’s done with that treat, he asks for another. Which he usually gets. And after that one, he asks for another still. Which he will sometimes get. And after that one, he will ask for another one still. Which he will not get. The disappointment of which he will pretty much get over immediately. But after his next walk, he’ll ask again for a treat. Which he’ll get. And then he’ll ask again….you get the picture. Asking for what he wants doesn’t embarrass him or produce anxiety like it often does me. Like everything else in his doggie world, he keeps it simple.

Openly accept the love that is offered to you. 

Hershey rejects no one. In fact, he prefers to have little love transactions with everyone he meets. You give my ears a scratch, I give you some of my naturally radiating warm fuzzies, and we both go on our way a little better for having exchanged a bit of love today. Love is offered to us every day in a million ways if we open our hearts and choose to accept it. Can you imagine what our daily experiences would be like if everyone adopted this attitude?

Confidently use your strengths to harness your desires. 

Hershey’s main strength around people is that he’s really damn cute. (Unfortunately you can’t tell so much in photos.) In addition to the cute factor, he emits happy love vibes. And he knows how to use these tools to get his favorite thing: attention.  

If I’m standing around talking to guests or vendors in Hershey’s presence, and he feels he’s not being properly acknowledged… he’ll quietly roll on his back, all four legs relaxed into dead weight, making no mistake to communicate that he’s offering up his belly for a rub. Often this move alone does the trick.

But if we’re really engaged in conversation—paying no mind to the dog—he’ll perform the Doodle Bug Dance. Remaining in the supine position, he wiggles back and forth as if to scratch his back. I have no doubt that back-scratching is not Hershey’s aim in this instance. No. Rather, he is using his cuteness to get what he wants: your love and affection. And let me tell you, the Doodle Bug Dance works every time.

Even wise old souls need time and space in which to play. 

The aforementioned delightful NYC acupuncturist also might have told me that I’m… “a little wound up,”… “bossy,” and… “a little serious.” Ha! She said these things with love. I needed to hear them, and am thus grateful. I certainly do forget to play.

Hershey is a mellow dog. He’s usually happy just being in the same room as the people. But when he feels like playing, he goes for it, man. He lets his freak flag FLY. When people meet him in this mode, they ask if he’s a puppy and are surprised to learn he’s five or six. 

Our lives aren’t meant to consist of drudgery and struggle. We’re supposed to have fun! Let our puppy energy out when we feel the urge! Hershey reminds me to honor that urge.    

Know when to be patient and when to assert yourself. 

Hershey’s patience can break my heart. Especially when I catch myself being impatient with him during our walks… when he dawdles along stopping to sniff every 15 seconds, and I have what I think are very important things to do. Yet, he’s eternally patient with me when waiting to walk.

But when it’s urgent or if I’ve put him off too long or when he just can’t take for one minute longer the knowledge that people are on the pool deck having fun without him, he lets me know. He talks and whines. He flaps his ears. He sits in front of me, looking expectantly in my eyes, and wagging his tail as if the energy he puts out in doing so will actually force me to move.  

And since he’s usually patient and well-behaved, I know that when Hershey makes a fuss, I’d better listen. I think it works the same way with people.

Exploring is fun, but there's no place like home.

Hershey wanders. As a result of this, he ended up back at the Humane Society twice in our first four months together. This is not something that he has necessarily grown past either. Yet, I can’t begrudge his urge to explore without being tethered to his mom. Good God, how can I suppress that independence and curiosity in a living creature?

Unfortunately though, for his safety, and for our continued peace with the neighbors, he doesn’t get to adventure much by himself anymore. Unless he pulls his signature stealth move and sneaks away when I’m distracted. Which, in all honesty isn't that infrequent of an occurrence...

But now Hershey never stays away for longer than twenty or thirty minutes. He always comes home. When he reaches the door, his enthusiasm is truly awesome. Bursting forth from the excitement he had on his adventures, he’s simultaneously elated to see me and be home again.

For reasons not worth delving into at the moment, I’ve developed a fluid relationship with the idea of home. For me, home is far more related to being in the presence of those with whom I share unconditional love and support than in visiting a particular community or house. 

So really, although Hershey was the one in more obvious need of a home…his adoption was a homecoming for us both.

Resting in a freshly dug hole after a good romp at Nelteberg.

My Meerkat Meets the Veep in Pueblo

Hello to my thirty-seven loyal readers! I'm excited to offer something different today. A break from Ashley's prose. The Meerkat has agreed to guest blog about meeting Joe Biden last weekend in our nastiest island grocery store. I hope you enjoy his story-telling as much as I do. Yes, he uses big words. I don't know them all either, and thus have included some links to vocabulary definitions. 

The amusing – and somewhat surprising – recurring question in the flurry of responses I received to the flurry of texts I sent was not, “What was Joe Biden doing in Pueblo?”, but “What were you doing in Pueblo?”

For the uninitiated, the impetus of that question requires some exposition of Pueblo itself.

Like so many things in the VI (banks, franchised restaurant chains, “locally produced” consumer goods), Pueblo comes to us from, and is headquartered in, Puerto Rico. Pueblo, writ large, fell victim to severe financial distress in 2007. Thanks to a white-knight purchase by the owners of the Holsum Bread Company (another “local”/PR institution), I am told that many of the Pueblos on our big-sister island have recently been refreshed and are now quite nice. But the beneficence of capital has, apparently, yet to trickle-down to the VI locations, and our hometown Pueblos simply fail to meet the quality standards of a Puerto Rican grocery store.

(Let’s pause for a moment to consider the tenor and resonance of those words, “…fail to meet the quality standards of a Puerto Rican grocery store.”)

On my very first day in St. Thomas, I was told to avoid Pueblo like the plague. (Actually, the exact words were “you’ll get the plague”. But even now, fully inculcated into the Island, that warning seems incredible: Hantavirus, unquestionably; Ebola, perhaps; but THE plague, no way!)

In spite of this well-intentioned if, y’know, very mildly hyperbolic advice, I have, myself, been in a Pueblo three times during my nearly two years here. The first was about a week after initially arriving. I left empty-handed, but it was by far the most formative of the visits. As I entered the store, there was a crudely lettered sign of indelible ink on the discarded flap of a corrugated cardboard box, “We Have Fresh Meat Available”.

As is my wont, I looked for the real meaning in the rhetorical white space of that sign. Yes, fresh meat is theoretically available, but it isn’t necessarily what’s displayed out there in the refrigerated cases. To get the FRESH meat: come at the right time, make sure you’re not being followed, ask for the “other” butcher, say the secret code word, engage in the secret handshake, and flash a little cash to make it worth the guy’s effort. Unperished perishables are a privilege, not a right!

My second visit was born (or perhaps, borne) out of necessity. The first bands of a hurricane that had been threatening the Greater Antilles for over a week were bringing torrential rain and gale-force wind and a deserved sense of helpless panic. I was acutely cognizant of the fact that there was nothing that remotely resembled comfort food in my house, and I was not about to risk bone-crushing, catastrophic, irreparable devistation without a supply of Fig Newtons and Cheetos. I was certain that every other grocer on the Island had long-since shuttered-up, opting to exercise the better part of valor, and that this was likely my only opportunity. Further specious justification was that, in the aftermath of a Category 4 storm where there would be no electricity or sanitation or access to even rudimentary healthcare, it would be impossible to distinguish between foodborne illnesses and waterborne illnesses thus somehow mentally indemnifying both Pueblo and my own questionable judgment.

The third visit, the one where I met the Vice President of the United States, was, like all good things that happen to bad people, the result of unflappable laziness and unwarranted luck.

Saturday, a corporate guest moved into my home for a temporary stay. He’s an affable fellow, an employee, a passing acquaintance from when I lived on another Island in another time. Like all of us who have relocated from the Mainland, he moved to the Caribbean primarily to tend to the care and feeding of his Cirrhotic cells. And last month, in a moment of inattention and/or megalomania, I agreed to his manager’s plan to involuntarily relocate him from his Island to mine. So, while having this house guest is not the preferred situation, I brought it on myself. Besides, corporate guests support my assertions to the IRS that the house (of dubious quality) that my employers provide me in part-exchange for my services (of dubious merit) is not, in any way, taxable income!

After he unpacked, I briefly mentioned that I needed to shop that evening. This was meant only to give him a vague indication as to my whereabouts so he could gauge how much time he had to rifle through my underwear drawer and medicine cabinet. He misinterpreted it as an invitation to come with, so we agreed to meet at 6:30.

Grocery shopping in St. Thomas can be an intolerable nuisance unless you elect to view it as a challenging sport. It is widely accepted that no shopping list, irrespective of how short or how simple, can be filled completely at a single store. Further, shoppers should never assume that just because they have purchased an item at a store – even frequently and recently – that that same item still will be at that same store. So shopping requires a multivariate calculation starting with the drive time to another store measured against the temperature inside and outside of the car measured against the perishability of the items already purchased measured against the viability of recipe substitutes the shopper already has at home. A proper shop takes about as long to complete as an international cricket test match and, while I know of no formal study being done, I viscerally sense that a fair barometer of a Thomian shopper’s ability to complete a shop without a carload of curdled milk and celery with the turgor of a wet shoelace is their past success with those standardized test questions which begin, “A train leaves New York heading west at 50 miles per hour…”

So my guest and I set-out, I with limited patience and even less emotional energy for straining a conversation to find shared, substantive relevance (we both, at the time, still sober). I drove us to the place I believed offered the best chance of finding enough of the items on our list for us to declare the shop completed and return home. It is located on the south central part of the Island; it caters to the yachties; the prices are unconscionable, but the selection is good (“Island good”), and this was not a time I cared to economize.

But nope, the holiday left that grocer’s shelf picked-over and, after recovering from the cognitive dissonance of comparing what I had just spent to what I had just purchased, I realized that there were too many basics still missing. The options were to trek 20 miles east to another “upscale” market, or battle Saturday evening traffic to attend a relatively closer “big box” style supermarket or, worse, both. And any of those options coupled with prattling-on about the relative merits of coral islands versus volcanic islands was beyond my mien. So as we exited the parking lot, I heard words fall uncontrollably out of my mouth, like some locality-adjusted Tourette’s patient, “I need to stop by the Pueblo that’s across the street.”

As we walked-in, the person standing by the front door caused immediate alarm: he was white, he was wearing a sports jacket and creased trousers. By the time my mind had assimilated these incongruities, the fact that he had an earwig attached to a curly-cue cord tucked into his shirt collar and was talking into his wrist seemed, almost, not to rate notice.

There had been confirmed newspaper reports and unconfirmed sightings of the V-POTUS on our Island. Putting two and two together with a concerning lack of alacrity, I began walking the aisles. At the north end of the seventh, between the sections of cookies and cookies that try to pass themselves off as crackers was Mr. Biden carefully considering Oreos.

I am as prone to being star-struck as anyone. But on the occasions when I’ve encountered celebrity, I’ve deferred to a more reserved approach. These people are constantly beset by space invaders; sharing problems or proffering babies for kisses. People in the public eye certainly must eternally suffer Purell-chapped hands or head colds or both. And here’s a Constitutional Officer of the United States, and he’s just trying to sneak a packet of partially-hydrogenated munchies into the buggy before his svelte wife catches-on and protests. Give the guy some peace. (The self-interest in all that enlightenment is: How much more likely is this famous person to be impressed by, and remember, the one person who passed and smiled and nodded cheerfully, if curtly, in the endless sea of those seeking autographs and photographs?)

My guest, whom I had lost conscious awareness of, was following a few paces behind me, and did not share my ascetic interaction style.

“Good Evening, Mr. Vice President! Nice to meet you…” I turned to see my guest, hand outstretched. Dutifully, The Vice President shuffled the cookie packets he was holding to free his right hand.

“Well, Hell”, I thought, “the man’s now lost all momentum trying to divine the relative advantages of White Fudge Covered and Double Stuff, so I might as well go ahead and get my licks in.”

I walked back, smiled, shook, and was told that it was good to be seen today. And immediately texted every Democrat -- and a few of the Republicans – I know.

Which leaves the answers to all of the questions unasked in those reply texts:

…I don’t know. I suppose his boss got to go to a tropical Island for vacation. And since he doesn’t need to convince anyone he has an American birthplace…but, yeah, I’d’ve thought St. John too.

…But remember, the VI has zero electoral votes. So I guess that makes gaffes pretty risk-free.

…Yes, just as unnaturally white as they appear on TV. Surprisingly not the kind of thing that makes you wish you knew if he uses polonium as toothpaste – the kind of thing that makes you wish you had a black light.

…Not really, all politicians say, “Glad to see you today”. I don’t think it’s indicative of some relapse of plagiarism.

...I know, the plugs looked awful when he had them implanted. And they didn’t seem to work. Bald gracefully. But that’s just my opinion.

…Yes, a total class act, a good sport, and a welcomed visitor on my Island!

Merry Christmas from the Frozen Tundra.

Double-furring it.

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.

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.

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.