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.

Island Animal Watch: White Rabbits?

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

“Follow white rabbits,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then on the indoor painting below:

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




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

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

On Spirituality and Religion, Part 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.

Another Parking Snafu

I’m running late for work again. But I’m still downtown early enough to nab a free parking spot on Government Hill. A parallel space at the top is free, and with no cars behind me, I decide to make an attempt. I’m encouraged by the easy way I slid in last time I parked here, especially because it’s no easy endeavor. The one lane road is quite narrow, of course, and the spots are on the left. Since I’m used to parking on the right, left-side parallel parking is an extra challenge. On my first try with this spot, my sole success was in bestowing a permanent scrape upon the Corolla’s right front bumper.

Today the space is almost mine, but I scrape the cement wall to my left before backing in completely. I try to straighten out and back in again, but a line of three cars forms behind me, and the thought of making them wait does not appeal. St. Thomians are extreme honkers.

This is making me sweat.

I continue the hunt, checking for angle spots on the downside of the hill. All the good ones at the very bottom are taken. But there are still plenty of ridiculous spaces left.

Foreground = Silly Spots.

Background = Legitimate Spots.

Why are these parking spots ridiculous, you ask?

Well, it is simply impossible to properly park in them. They are far too small, for one thing. I drive a Toyota Corolla of modest size and still have trouble fitting within the painted white line. It doesn't help that the angle of the line is strange and unrealistic, like an empty puzzle space with no pieces to fit.

Does the shape look odd to you? Or is it just me?

But by far the worst thing about these spaces is that if you inch ahead so as to not have your rear bumper sticking into the one lane road, you run a serious risk of having your front tire fall off the ledge.

And this, folks, is exactly what happens to me.

My front left tire drops off the ledge and my rear right tire flies up in the air, and there my car balances like a three-thousand pound sea-saw.

My first reaction is, “Of course this would happen to me. It was only a matter of time.”

I look to my left and see a man and a woman watching. The man—young, serious and lean—

already looks like he’s fixin' to help.

I clumsily manage to get out of the car and greet my witnesses.

“Good Morning,” I say, trying to smile, “this is typical for me.”

The woman looks on and offers friendly, concerned remarks.

The young man gets to work examining the situation.

I start trying to call Mike, who is already at work downtown only a couple blocks away. I don’t know what I think he’ll do to help me, but I’m convinced that I need to reach him. He doesn’t answer. Mike always answers.

One of my regulars (large hot chocolate & warm bottle of water) stops by the scene. She saw the whole thing. She's a stateside girl about my age, and is heading to her legal assistant job in the building next to R&J’s. She looks all cute and professional, per usual. I sometimes feel pangs of envy when she comes into the coffee shop for how cute she looks going to her office job. I used to look cute and professional going to my office job rather than my current peasant uniform of a mocha-stained yellow polo.

Luckily, she is very sweet, and offers to help. I’m hesitant to be behind the wheel while trying to get out of this mess, so she drives while the young man and I push on the rear bumper in an attempt to add a counterweight.

My new friends do their best, but the Corolla only slips further over the ledge.

Fortunately, more helpful people approach—two guys and a woman I recognize from the coffee shop.

They strategize on the best way to return my tires to the pavement. It’s decided that I need traction beneath my dangling tire. What we need are rocks and boards. I’m beginning to think I should keep rocks and boards in my trunk for these instances.

I continue trying to call Mike. I think I mentioned during the telling of the Corolla’s last adventure that I am generally of little use when it comes to problem solving with heavy objects. 

Another regular (16oz mocha with whip) who works in the government building nearest to where my car is “parked” comes out of her office and asks if we want to take a look at the old board behind her building. She holds it up for us to see. One of the guys determines that it will work. And they go about stacking the rocks and board underneath the wheel.

We try backing out again, this time with me steering. (I really need to do something besides try, in futile, to call my boyfriend.) Even with three people pressing down on the elevated back bumper, and one pushing from the front, the car still won’t budge.

More rocks are found and shoved under the board and tire. And, as if sent by Providence, four strapping men walk through the permit lot toward where our group is gathered. They are recruited and all four get positioned to push from the front.

I, sitting impotently in the front seat, have finally gotten Mike on the phone by dialing his assistant’s extension. Just when he gets on the line, we’re ready to roll. I take the moment to ask him stupidly,

“Sorry. Did I interrupt you?”

To which one of the most recently acquired men pushing from the front says to me,

“Sweetheart, this is no time to be talking on the phone.” He sounds irritated, and I can’t blame him. At least he did the Caribbean thing and left the sweetheart part in.

“Gotta go. Nevermind.” I say into the phone and hang up.

Four people push down on the back bumper. Four people push up on the front bumper. I gently push on the accelerator. And the Corolla backs up over the ledge and onto the cement once again.

The crowd quickly scatters; I imagine they’re all late. I’m feeling a bit dazed as I exit the car. By the time I get out, most are gone. Only the first man and woman remain.

“Thank you,” I try calling out after the dispersing crowd. “Good karma points to you all…” My voice trails off as I realize they can’t hear me.

“Thanks,” I say to my first two onlookers.

The young man keeps his head down, going over to inspect something- perhaps the ledge or the rocks we used.

“Hey, let me shake your hand,” I say.

He stops and allows me to shake.

“Come into R&J’s and I will by you breakfast, lunch, whatever you want. Thanks so much.”

He blows it off like it’s no big deal that he spent the last 30 minutes helping me out of my silly parking snafu.

I walk toward work feeling a little stunned and very grateful. Twice now, my fellow islanders have gathered together, with little effort on my part other than doing something stupid in the first place, and have saved me with muscle and ingenuity.

Once again, I am, without a doubt, blessed.

Sanded In

So it’s my day off, and I’m heading to the beach with Beth, the friend, and Hershey, the dog. We are at Hull Bay, one of the only dog-friendly beaches on island. It looks busy for a Thursday, and there are no obvious parking spots. I drive to the end of the beach before I find a space that looks easy and empty. But as soon as I pull onto the sand, I suspect we may be in trouble. The ridge between the road and the beach is further than I expected, which I worry will keep me from backing out, especially since sand doesn’t offer much in the way of traction.

No sooner do I exit my car than a pretty blonde mom in a white pickup stops on the road and says, sounding concerned, “Oooh, that’s the stuck spot.”

“I had a feeling …” I say.

“You’ll be okay,” she says unconvincingly, “Just think positive.”

“Just think positively,” I correct her grammar in my head.

“We’ll be fine,” Beth says, heading down the beach to find a landing spot.

I guess we’ll worry about it later.

Later comes, and we discover that, sure enough, the car’s going nowhere. My tires spin uselessly, only digging deeper into the sand. It’s quite similar to being stuck in an icy Minnesota snow bank, except it’s not dangerously cold outside, and I’m facing the ocean. Damn, why did I leave behind the small shovel that lived in my trunk expressly for these moments? I guess I figured it wouldn't be needed in the tropics.

Fortunately, after it becomes obvious that we’re stuck, it takes only a couple minutes for multiple men to offer assistance. Hands-on Beth jumps in to problem-solve too. I always feel useless in these situations, being dimwitted when it comes to manipulating matter. Especially matter that is heavy in nature.

It's determined that we must place something under the front tires for traction enough to get us over the cement ledge between the sand and the road.

A Dude-like character approaches and tells us we're not going anywhere without a four-wheel drive vehicle pulling us out first. I tend to agree with him, but everyone wants to try without it first. I dig the jack out of the trunk, and we use it to lift the front frame. Then we place some rocks under the tires and lay boards on top of them for traction. (The boards are conveniently there, probably left over from previous stuck incidents.)

Of course, none of this is my idea.

We finish this task, and The Dude re-approaches,

“I got a truck coming.”

(From where did these helpful souls come?!)

The truck somehow attaches itself by rope to my car's posterior in a manner they promise will not rip off the bumper. With the truck pulling and five of us pushing and Beth behind the wheel, we get the car out of the sand and onto the road.

Beth lays on the horn when the car starts to move. A celebratory, elephantine burst of cheer, I assume, but she later tells me that her hand, in fact, was on the horn accidentally. Anyhow, it works in the moment.

“Good karma points to you all,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

And we gone.

These are good people here.
I am blessed.