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.

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 2: Landscape

Minnesota is a flat, landlocked mass covered in water-filled holes.

Space… p e r v a d e s .

Roads are luxuriously wide. And usually designed in a square, grid-inspired system. Yards are expansive, with beautifully manicured grass of the most verdant green. In the suburbs and towns, and even to a large degree the city, properties remain comfortably spaced with no less than a modest yard. Homes and businesses are smartly kept and neutrally painted. Neighborhoods are mostly homogenous and identical to suburban developments across America.

Vast amounts of real estate are employed as parking lots. Parking lots that allow for the widest berth instead of creativity in cramped driving. Untended vegetation consists of small woody areas or fields of prairie grass, all growing at a decorous pace. In the rural Midwest, your eyes pass over acres upon acres of agricultural land running to the horizon and beyond.

And litter, well, it seems practically to not exist.

Conversely:

St. Thomas is a lush, rugged speck in the ocean.

Space=preciouscommodity!

Roads are barely wide enough for two vehicles. There is no logic to their design, at least not one that is apparent to me. They seem to be built simply where they're necessary and possible, considering the mountainous topography. Rather than a grid, the St. Thomas road structure is more like the random scribbles of a young toddler on the world’s bumpiest Etch-A-Sketch.

Yards are generally small, and if someone has real grass, it’s assumed they’re rich in either time or money, if not both. Landscaped homes display vibrant, lush flowers, as well-tended as is possible with the fast and wild manner in which tropical flora grow. Every few months, crews of four or five hit the roads to cut back the bush with machetes.

Houses in St. Thomas seem to be built on top of one another up the mountainside. And they have character. You can easily get away with painting your house fuchsia or teal.



This is a poor photo and not the ritziest neighborhood. But you get the idea.
I love love love the fuscia house!



If you tried this in Minnesota, you’d be given the cold shoulder by your neighbors and would be the talk of many neighborhood bridge games and basement church dinners.

A St. Thomian will claim to have a farm if what they actually possess is a garden in their large, fenced-in backyard.

And the litter. The litter exists in heartbreakingly high numbers, especially in densely-populated areas and on the beach. Yes, we have some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and frequently the people who enjoy them don’t find it necessary to collect their trash upon leaving. And since we don’t have curbside garbage collection here, dumpsters scattered across the island frequently overflow with rubbish. This functions as an excellent scavenging ground for wild chickens, dogs, and cats. As well as a starting point for the litter that will almost certainly find its way down the mountain to the sea and out into one of the swirling vortexes of garbage that humankind has created in each of our oceans.

Besides being relatively litterless in comparison, the Midwest is certainly beautiful in its own way, especially the bluff and hill saturated regions of SE Minnesota and NE Iowa, where the wedding events occurred. But damn, the island takes my breath away almost every day. The colorful and dramatic landscapes are beyond compare—a constant reminder of the Universe’s capacity for creating glorious scenes in nature. I have always been fond of the more exotic types of beauty, so it’s not surprising that I prefer the vivacity of a tropical island to, say, the serenity of a lake in the woods.

I never appreciated the tidy, ample space of the Midwest because I had never lived without it. I remember being aware of the free availability of space in the heartland when I visited NYC as a teenager. The hotel’s hallways and rooms were almost inconceivably narrow and small. And when I spent time in the urban residential neighborhoods of Chicago, it also became clear how much space is, well, just that…empty space. But what a difference the presence of empty space can invoke! 

I guess mostly, the presence of space gives a greater sense of, well...comfort and autonomy. Room to stretch out and not be bothered by others.

Now, one would think that the available of empty space would make one feel less constricted and more expansive. But, you know what? In the case of Iowa and Minnesota, this isn’t so.  I would argue that most people who live in St. Thomas feel far less constricted than they would in the states, especially the Midwest. It’s why so many people move here in the first place. Plus, I think having ample space just makes it easier to enclave yourself with others like you. There is less of a need to interact with people who are different from you and your kin. So while there was far more open space surrounding me in the heartland, my mind and soul are far more open here. On this tiny speck between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, I am, somehow, freer. I’m still trying to figure out why St. Thomas has this affect on people, but I am convinced that the landscape is a major contributor.




Another seascape. Sunday morning in St. John. Nature's church.





A Teeny-Tiny Rock with Lots and Lots of Guns

Five people died as a result of gunshot wounds in the USVI last week.
Four on St. Thomas. One on St. Croix. 

There have been around 15 homicides in the VI so far this year.
Allow me to remind you that the year has just begun.
Average = 2 homicides/week.

Also allow me to remind you that the island of St. Thomas is 13 miles long and 4 miles wide. Its area in square miles is roughly half the size of Minneapolis proper.
We are a mere speck in the ocean.
A speck with around 55,000 human inhabitants.
Inhabitants who have, of late, been increasingly violent and gun-laden.

The week's first death occured when a toddler, the son of a cop, shot himself playing with daddy's gun.

The third person that died was the sister of my co-worker's brother. Two weeks ago, she was in the coffee shop with her kids. Only 25-years-old. Younger than me. Her boyfriend has been arrested for owning the unlicensed gun, and is a suspect in the death, the exact cause of which- accidental or planned- has yet to be officially determined.

We have one of the highest murder per capita rates in the world.

That's all. No soapbox. No musing. I simply thought it necessary to share this major problem in paradise.

Where Where Where Would You Poo?

If you were homeless, that is.

I saw something on Sunday morning that sullied my wholesome Midwest sensibilities. Something that got me thinking about this very question.

I was feeling particularly grateful on this, the second beautiful weekend morn, that I didn’t have to stay inside and work. I had enjoyed coffee at the cyber cafe downtown and was walking up Government Hill to visit Beth at the Galleon House, where she works all weekend as the front desk manager. The job allows her to hang with friends on the verandah overlooking historic downtown Charlotte Amalie. And do fun things like cook vegan dishes and make beaded jewelry.

While climbing 99 Steps, I notice a homeless woman who has, of late, been living in the hillside park within the circular drive on Government Hill. She is stationed on the upper part of the park, relatively close to the road that serves as a driveway for local restaurants, lodgings, and attractions, not to mention the Office of the Governor. She appears to be crouching. It looks rather like a bathroom squat to me, but I don’t think it possible.

I continue up the steps, trying not to stare. But naturally, I can’t help but glance in her direction the closer I get to the top. I am compelled, however disgustingly, to decipher what exactly she is doing. To disprove my suspicions, I hope.

But yes. It certainly seems like she is positioned in a bathroom squat. When I get behind her, I confirm that her pants are, indeed, down and she seems ready to wipe her ass with what looks like paper, and not of the toilet variety.

Oh my. I just witnessed a homeless woman shitting in the park before noon on a Sunday.

I share this with Beth and she seems far less surprised. Perhaps she’s seen more grit than me. (Although, I must add that two of my St. Thomian co-workers assured me they had never seen someone poo in public.)

“I don’t know, Beth,” I say. “Don’t you think she could at least wait until the sun goes down?”

“Could you wait until the sun goes down?”

She had a point.
When you have to go. You have to go.

But I’m privileged to be choosy about where I void my bowels. I used to drive twenty minutes home from work during my lunch hour for the mere comfort of shitting in my own home.

I’ve never before pondered the bathroom habits of the homeless. Does it create anxiety? It certainly would for me.

What has brought this lady to the point of pulling down her britches and squatting in the park under the midday sun, while not even bothering to hide behind a tree? It seems to me, from this and other observations, that she suffers from a debilitating mental illness and lacks access to the medication and resources necessary to keep her functioning more normally. This, of course, is the unfortunate cause behind many instances of homelessness in America.

Knowing this, I still can't help feeling repulsed, but her condition is also heartbreaking.

Thoughts, anyone?

Where would you poo?