On Spirituality and Religion, Part 2: Background

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

I had many deep inquiries:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday Sunset View from the Porch

Evidence of a Higher Power

On Spirituality and Religion, Part I: Context

So, I’m reading an email from my favorite curmudgeon and former high school teacher, Mr. Seversen…three weeks after it arrived in my Inbox, of course…

I’m annoyed to see his response to a question I’d asked in a previous email regarding something he’d written to me. Specifically, he referred to me becoming born-again. Aghast at the very thought, I demanded to know the reason for his inquiry.

His irksome response:

“You made some comment about spiritual journey or something like that. And I’m deeply amused by people being “spiritual” and non religious. What the hell is that? Religion comes in many forms like that goon, Deepak Chopra…the mater of double speak.”

Now, I’ve never actually read anything by Deepak Chopra. All I know is that he belongs to the body of spiritual philosophy known as New Thought, which is related to the wider, more fluid, and much-mocked, New Age Movement. So, Sev (pronounced Seeve) has a good idea of the neighborhood in which I live spiritually. I must have dropped some hints.

His comment bothers me because I feel quite strongly that moving to St. Thomas is part of a spiritual journey I don’t yet fully understand. One of the only things I am sure of when it comes to my recent life transition is that being here is an essential step on my path.

Furthermore, I feel compelled to articulate what exactly I do believe, spiritually speaking. Not just so I can explain to others, but so I can more truly understand myself. Strangely enough, I discover a lot about what I think and feel from the writing process.

Therefore, I’m taking the opportunity to explore what I mean when I say that I’m spiritual and not religious. It’s fine if people don’t agree with me, I just want to avoid them finding me amusingly ironic or completely oblivious, as my dear Mr. Seversen seems to.

Thank you, Mr. Seversen. Even though your comments chafed, you’ve inspired me to articulate what exactly it is that I believe and why. Proving once again, that you are an excellent and necessary teacher in this here lifetime. Perhaps others as well. Or perhaps I served as a teacher for you in another lifetime…

Oops! I’m going all New Age on you again.

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.

Tropical Tidbits: Vocabulary Words

Antiman: A homosexual.

As in, "Da ship wit all de antiman heh today."

Flit: Mosquito killer that is sprayed in the air rather than on one's skin.

As in, "You should flit your room tonight to keep those dengue-infected mosquitos out."
Unintended connection of note: According to urbandictionary.com, flit was a 1950's slang term for homosexuals."


And... a photo essay on a bit of St. Thomas life:

"Drinking Roadies"

Have I mentioned that road side dumpsters serve as our public waste removal system?

"Ditching Roadies"

Facing Raw Fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow this convinces me.

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

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

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

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