reach for the light

Since first passing these wild blooms in the cemetery, I have found myself returning daily to catch a glimpse of them. I find them inspiring, in a bittersweet sort of manner, as the reach for the rays that so briefly touch them each day from over the hilltop that shadows them. So I have taken up an odd little ritual of greeting them each morning with little words of encouragement in the efforts to “reach for the light.” Who knows, maybe it helps :-)

i still believe . . .

Rather than bemoan the lack of hours in the day, I decided today to simply make the time to do what I awoke inspired to do: it occurred to me that it would be great fun would be to play “herb fairy.” So I plucked several bundles of varieties like this Italian Basil and made my rounds . . . sometimes "practical" errands just have to wait :-)

the day's delight

One of the perks of my present home and pet-sitting stint has been the luxury of tending to[and eating out of!] a lovely garden. So today I allowed myself the joy of turning a few of these gems into a wildflower bouquet that became a spontaneous gift for a friend.

a dead bolt & a door jam

Is a dead bolt an odd thing to photograph? Maybe so, but it seemed appropriate for me, as I am particularly proud of this one. Every time I figure out how to do something new, it seems fitting to document it, if the task is successfully accomplished, that is . . . in this case, I have spent yesterday and today purchasing and installing new dead bolts, so I am feeling that thrill of handy-woman accomplishment. Mind you, one is still in progress, as I found out I had drilled the holes slightly off. Back to that drill . . .

"Dear Author . . ."

As I had only a transcribed version before, I requested a photocopy of the original from the archives . . . so have just received this cheery visual aid for my previous post about the young doctor-to-be and her author inspiration :-)

p.i.?

This afternoon included a visit with one of the elderly residents I had grown especially close to during my time as a social worker. As he showed me some of his old photographs, he noted that the photo on this card was of his 1st cousin Arthur. Then he asked me if I recognized his face. While I looked more closely--and with decidedly more curiosity--Mr. Bradley continued: "You know the 'don't squeeze the Charmin' guy in those old commercials?" I nodded, impressing myself with my rare media-knowledgeability. "That was him," he said. Eyes widening, I could think of nothing more sophisticated to say than Whoa--how cool!," which still seems sufficiently eloquent to me.
As Mr. Bradley happens to be one of the most honorable, kind-hearted men I know, I am quite certain that this is the truth. But for the sake of you all who do not know him, I shall try to do some sleuthing, for the sake of official verification . . .

under the sea [?]

This week has been another camp adventure, including my first attempt at having the students do a mural. We opted for an "Under the Sea" theme, rounded out when one other goofy counselor and I regaled [tormented?] them all with a dramatic rendition of "Part of your world" . . . and yes, if you are wondering, I am afraid I must admit to knowing the song word for word! But back to the mural: it all went, er, swimmingly? The inspired youngsters undertook such creative feats as Octopi, Mermaids, Jellyfish, and . . . Spongebob Squarepants?!?

putting the pieces together

I was so stunned to actually hear a live voice answering that I stumbled over my words until she interrupted to kindly request that I "get to the point" of the phone call. But I had grown so accustomed to wrong numbers and undeliverable email addresses that, as I dialed one last number yesterday, I had almost forgotten what I was going to ask. Once I had sufficiently collected myself, however, we determined that, though she did not remember it until I described the circumstances, this Doctor was indeed that little girl writing a letter to an admired author. She even told me that she still had some of Ms. Estes' books in her house, while still not remembering writing the letter. But eventually, she did recollect that school visit. And she confirmed the dates. By the time I hung up the phone, she was eagerly plugging me for more details about any other children whom she might remember from her school days, about the details of her own letter, about information I had found about the school itself . . .
I smiled for the rest of the day about it, excited that soon now, this doctor will have a photocopy of her almost-forgotten letter, forever proving the power of inspiration in the lives of children.

this is the chapel . . .

. . . where I intended to come for Mass this morning. But I'm afraid I had chosen it for rather shallow reasons, in that I was simply charmed by its external appearance. So it is probably poetic justice that I did not make it in time for the 8:00 am service. Instead, I took this photo and then continued on to the gallery that was next on my day's agenda. Yesterday I had met the owner of a gallery, and had promised her I would come to visit her place today. It turns out that while I was there with her, learning how to weave on her loom, another visitor arrived. This gentleman was the producer of a local news station, and had come to interview her about her vision for the business, and for the arts. She did her interview and then asked if he could interview me as well, as she thought my "story" was an interesting one. He did--had me sing as well. So there is, I suppose, the slight chance that I will show up here on the local news :-)

for lack of the real thing

The weather today did not cooperate with an outdoor photo, there being severe thunderstorms throughout the region. I was, however, pleasantly surprised to see this faux version of my recent obsession when it arrived for our celebrations. As you can see, it was "Open House Day," which meant that businesses throughout the state opened their doors with special festivities in celebration of the arts. At this particular establishment, that meant student and professional art work displayed throughout the house, plus some of the artists here to accompany their works. I, in turn, got to play "resident artist," as I was working on some sketches for my upcoming lecture at the university. So I camped out of the floor with my canvas, feeling slightly sheepish about my amateur work as I examined the impressive local works that surrounded me, Nonetheless, it was a successful day of artistic celebration, with an impressive turnout of folks eager to brave the elements in support of local culture.

the close of another day

So I'm still smitten with those wildflowers, especially when they are framed by a sun setting over the hills . . . can you blame me?

flowers and findings

The sun is setting on my first full day of research at a special children's literature collection. Thanks to a research grant, I was able to travel out here for a week to complete my project and then to present my findings for a university committee. It is solitary work and so inherently rather lonely--but I cannot complain. Especially when these wildflowers greet me from outside the window of my rustic room :-)
My day's work ended with a delightful discovery: while reading through "fanmail" that well known authors have received over the years, I came upon one that made me pause with curiosity. In 1958 a young adolescent wrote that she had been inspired by this particular author's visit to her school. Apparently the speaker told of how her stories were in large part inspired by her real-life experiences, both actual and those she read about in books. So this child wrote that she wanted to become a doctor when she grew up. And since hearing the author's talk, she had been "keeping her ears open" each time she had a doctor's visit: even going early so as to learn more. In addition, she was asking her mother for books about doctors and about the medical profession, which she had been avidly reading.
When I pondered this letter, I could not help but ask myself, So did she become a doctor? If so, that is quite a tribute to the influence we can have on others--especially on children--as we go about our own daily work . . .
So I did a bit of internet searching, and, lo and behold, I came across the child's exact name, listed as an "infectious disease physician," prominent, and published, in her field. I also found an email address. So what do you think I did? Why, of course, I sent her an email, quoting the letter I had found, and asking if she was that same scribe of a child. We shall see what I find out . . . ;-)

a wine glass and a toothbrush

It was my first stint as a wedding photographer. And it was a challenge, to be sure--but an immensely rewarding one. One of the aspects that struck me the most about it all, about my role in it, was the importance of simply being there . . . of keeping my "eyes," both the real and the photographic varieties, wide open to the moments: the expected moments, of course [all 576 of them!]. But most significantly, in my opinion, to the unexpected moments. Like this one. A veil waiting to be donned. Alongside the wine glass used when the bride needed to calm herself from a pre-ceremony breakdown. And a pink toothbrush . . . because everyone needs a pink toothbrush handy, wedding days notwithstanding :-)

a shady tree

I had my students explain their artwork to the rest of the class this morning: expecting more shyness in response, I was pleasantly surprised to see how unabashedly expressive and proud many of my young artists ended up being. And you must imagine the word "artiste" being said with a flagrantly exaggerated French accent, as that is what I used in class :-)
Riley, for instance, gestured broadly towards his canvas as I held it up for all to see: "This is my tree," he began. "And there is the sun. The tree is holding up her branches, see--she's shading her eyes from the sun, 'cause she's hot."
It was, incidentally, quite a hot day today . . . and the campers had just been happily romping in the creek before coming into art class.

home findings

Strange the things you miss in your own backyard . . . or front yard, as the case may be. Here I am, back in my "home town" again, and today I make a discovery: after photographing fruit trees in the Caribbean, I find a brimming one here in my own yard that I hadn't realized was anywhere close to actually bearing fruit. I think it might be a peach tree but stay tuned . . . I'll keep you posted with confirmation :-)

as it was

It was the first time I have seen my mother dance. She clung tightly to my stepfather, her tear-stained face resting on his shoulder. Next to me, my brother wept at the sight, covering his face with his hands. I hesitantly rested my hand on his hunched shoulder, longing to reach out in a big sisterly love but restrained by my own discomfort at seeing his tears. He cried out of a pure, loving joy at the closeness of our family that day. And he cried because he saw the touching beauty of our paralyzed mother being supported by her husband as the emotions of such an intensely significant day overcame her.
My own reaction, however, was decidedly more conflicted. I wanted to see it as beautifully moving; I even wished that I could also be moved to tears, as I had been earlier, as the bride and groom said their vows, and when I spoke in tribute. But I could not. Instead, my eyes were glued to Mom’s feet. My practicality overruled emotion, and I held an internal debate as to whether or not I needed to walk over and straighten Mom’s feet for her. You see, her right ankle had done what it habitually does, weakening so that her foot leaned precariously to one side. What I knew was that this means she had been on her feet for too long, lessening her mobility and her flexibility. Sometimes she cannot feel the foot when it does this. But other times it is painful for her.
So as I watched, all I could do was worry about that foot and wonder if I should disturb the dance floor in order to walk over and readjust her feet.
Sometimes, I guess, the grit of life interferes with what would have been just a pretty picture. Because the harsh reality is that I cannot simply let go of my identity as a duty-driven eldest child. So as much as I longed to just treasure the moment for its beauty, I was powerless to manufacture those emotions. I envied my brother’s youthfully intense emotions, but it would be senseless now for me to waste energy regretting that which I no longer have the innocence to possess.
At the age of nine I grew old. And now, at the age of 28, I still find myself struggling, at times, with the daily realities of a life that is what it is, and not necessarily as it should be.
But you know, I don’t mind that so much. When it comes down to it, who really wants it all to be a bed of roses anyhow? It is only through weathering the storms that we can really savour the joys.
And so yesterday I decided against “fixing” my mother’s foot. I stayed right where I was, feeling what I felt—and marveling at what my brother felt. The moment was what it was . . . and that is exactly what it should have been.

. . . and pretty maids all in a row

Stopping to chat with my garden-growing, rose-donating elderly friend this afternoon, I noticed how lovely she was and asked if I could take her photo. She protested, claiming that she looked horrid. I told her she was beautiful. She dismissed me with a wave and a "pshaw," yet obliged as I took out my camera. She is beautiful, is she not? :-)

old mother hubbard . . .

Old Mother Hubbard, she lived in a cupboard . . .
Eating her curds and whey?
Maybe I don't know so much about Old Mother Hubbard,
But I've still got something to say.

Cause I've got a mother--a young mother, maybe,
But a mother who's better by far,
Than any cupboard-abiding Old Mother I see,
And here's why Mom raises the bar:

For starters she's gallant--so daring and bold,
She braves any challenge she sees.
For instance she zips down the slopes, in the cold,
Past all, on her handicap skis.

Another trait of my mother that puts her beyond
The realm of your average Plain Jane,
Is a wit that's too sharp to ever be conned,
And sense of humor that keeps us all sane.

One time, for example, Mom came in the door,
Calling her rambunctious crew all around,
To say she had just bought a treat for us four:
A "six-pack" at the store, she had found!

The truth is that while she was there at the grocer,
She'd seen what had given her pause:
A "beer" touted as non-alcoholic inspired her
To play a prank on her dearest young ones!

Fact is I could prattle for ages on end
About all the ways mom's a marvel.
But by the time I was done I'd have to extend
This poem to the length of a novel.

So here I will close with a simple word more,
To say that it's high time, I gather,
That this woman who's truly a "mom" to the core,
Is soon going to be a Grandmother!

the unnamed painter

Something about this pertly pink painter struck me as picture-perfect when I passed. So I was happy to see him still at it on the way back home; this time I stopped behind the bush to pull out my camera and snap the shot. It was a rather cumbersome process, digging the camera out of a full sack, putting down the flowers I was carrying in my other hand, and lowering my sunglasses in order to see properly for photographic purposes. By the time I was poised and ready, the realization that I should have asked him permission to take his photo finally occurred to me; but I fear I must confess that I was too hot at the time, and preoccupied with getting home to prepare for Youth Meeting, to do as I should . . .
But this anonymous gentleman has, I hope, in his unknowing heart, kindly allowed me to post him here :-)

the sweetest fruit?

Remember the "thieving grass" post? Well today I met that "grass":
Passing by the field, I saw 3 brown heads quickly dart down to avoid being spotted. In my best stern teacher voice, I ordered them out and told them they should know better than to trespass: "Boys, get out of there this minute--you know you're supposed to go straight home after school!" I stifled a laugh as they dashed to heed my order, awkwardly squeezing back through the narrow wooden slats of the gate. And then I snapped this shot of their smug faces, sticky with mango juice . . . I've heard it said that stolen fruit is the sweetest kind :-)

that angel for you

Ok, here's your sand angel, Kel :-) It was, I think, my first--and I consequently discovered just how difficult it is to get trillions of grains of sand off my sticky [but tanned!] skin, and out of my hair . . .

April 30

There once was a boy, Alex his name--
A fine young chap, destined for fame.

This lad, you see, was born with a knack
For seeing the plenty where others see lack.

Take, for example, his identity:
A simple case of multiplicity.

American-Canadian, but in Africa born--
When claiming his race, he felt rather forlorn.

Till one happy day, in a flash of brilliance,
He heard of a term that made perfect sense.

"So that's what I am!," he said with a grin,
Doing the Happy Dance with a whirl and a spin.

And from that day forth, each stranger run into
Was promptly introduced, with no further ado,

To Alexander Thomas, a fine gentleman:
A green-eyed and blond-headed African-American!

So on this 30th of April, I must take the occasion
To wish my little brother a fire-cracking, heck-raisin'

"Happy Birthday!" my dear, and all love to you always!

must be one of those [maternal?] days

My path crossed this afternoon with twin boys walking home from school. As they passed, they greeted me with a "Happy Mother's Day" wish. I cheerily thanked them, and then thought, Now that's odd. Am I looking especially maternal today? Perhaps I'm still wearing traces of last night's pride over my Youth Choir's first performance? Who knows . . .
And on a not entirely unrelated note, my photo today is of the set-up that was taking place on the beach today. As I took the photo, I thought about how the pre-ceremony look of it was, to me, more beautiful than the standard wedding shots that will, I assume, be taken this evening.

that thieving grass

. . . but i guess not everyone around here likes the grass :-)

keeping it clean

Taking the bus back home from a trip into town, I found myself next to a fellow who, judging from the smell of things, was apparently coming straight from "work," in his Trash Pick-Up uniform. He also was a proudly dredlocked, colour-bearing Rastafarian. For the entirety of the 45-minute ride, he talked without seeming to stop for breath, lecturing us all on the woes of "the man," who gets nothing from the government, on the power of the people, and on the ways of the island.
As he talked about the island, a tourist behind us interjected to query our Rasta friend as to whether there was a drug problem here on the island.
Still without a pause for breath, Rasta jumped into this issue. "Oh yeah, man. Big problem. We got big problems. People here on the island, they just don't know what to do, so they do drugs. Big problem. Yeah man. Me, I don't do too much . . . "
At this point I looked at him and, wondering if I had heard him right, asked if he had just said "too much."
In the middle of his speech still, he didn't hear me and kept going. The bus driver, however, from the front, tossed back an affirmation that indeed, that's what he had said.
Tuning back in to Rasta Man, I caught the remainder of his explanation:
" . . . I don't do the cocaine. I don't smoke. I stick with the clean grass--straight from Jamaica. That's the good grass . . ."
I feel very informed now, I dare say, being ignorant before now about the merits and origins of "clean" grass.

pretty in pink

Today being officially Earth Day, I thought I would post one of the photos I took at the Beach Clean Up that I mentioned the other day. This was one of my favourite photos of the morning: she was definitely the most stylishly-attired among us that morning. As I told her, she looked stunningly pink there in that lovely early-morning-sunlight, deftly gathering the ocean's discards to fill up her rubbish sack.

if the early bird gets the worm . . .

I roused the youth at the bright hour of 7:00 to start beach clean up this morning, as a part of our Earth Day celebration. And when I say I roused them, I mean it literally--I ended up making house calls to pick them up and got one teen out of her bed :-) Before you think me a terrible task master, I must at least say in my defense that this particular youth had assured me the night before, as we rolled sushi together, that she would be there in the morning . . .
At any rate, my small crew and I spent the morning dragging trash bags along the sand and, more rapidly that one would like, filling them with all manner of debris: from Barbie doll arms to forks [dinglehoppers ;-)] to Mardi Gras beads.
One find, however, that did not go into the trash bags was this orphaned duckling, who went home with the youngster who found him.
So does this mean that the early teen get the bird?

feeling fruity

". . . abounding in fruit" I believe is what I said in a prior post . . . and to add to the list, I thought I should perhaps snap a shot of my banana tree this afternoon.

bright shiny toes

Today I think I was given a little lesson about my recent compulsion to feel the need to spend every moment working, be it scheduled or not--and my guilt over any free time that I do have . . .
First I should mention that in my young women's Bible Study group I was talking about service last night, and I read the foot washing passage as one illustration. At the time, it occurred to me that I have developed a bit of self-consciousness about the state of my feet. Since I walk everywhere, in sandals, my already-battered-from-running feet have taken on a new level of filthiness. And it is worse than I know how to take care of myself, or than I am willing to take the time to try to figure out.
At any rate, this morning in the shower it occurred to me that I would love to be able to get a pedicure. Mind you, I have no reason to consider such a thing, having been super budget minded for some time now. I got a pedicure once, but it was years ago--a Christmas gift from my overly generous sister. So there in the shower, as I got ready for my usual day's errands, I debated my illogical impulse. Surely I shouldn't spend money on something so frivolous, especially here where I cringe at the prices of even the most basic of needs.
But then I thought that perhaps I should consider it after all. I did, technically, have the time, if not the money [my day was not scheduled until afternoon, when my youth choir would meet]. Then I remembered a friend I had visited several weeks ago, who I noticed had beautiful feet--and I had commented on them to her at the time.
Did I have her number anywhere? Looking around, I found it. I would call her, I decided, and ask where one would go to get a good price on a pedicure around here. I called.
"Anna, dear--long time!" she cheerfully answered.
Warning her that I had a rather odd question for her, I explained my morning dilemma. She told me where she got hers done, mentioned a few [sky high!] normal prices, and then she said, "Funny thing . . . "
Turns out, she had just found out that she had won a Spa Pedicure, after doing a charity walk recently. She had just gotten a pedicure herself, and had been trying to decide what she should do with it . . .
I gratefully accepted her offer, hopped on the bus, and met her in town this morning for a gift certificate handoff. The pedicure itself also turned out to be a delightful time, as the pedicurist was recently transplanted from Africa--Zambia, in fact! So we chatted about the country, its people, and life there until she ended up running out of time and having to cut short the pedicure itself!
And I have spent the remainder of the day walking around rather clumsily, distracted as I gaze downwards to admire my pearly toes :-)

a sea worthy sight

There is no great significance to this day's photo, save the simple fact that I found this boat strangely beautiful. It gave me pause today, as I watched it and wondered at what it was that moved me . . . I think it may be the simplicity of this vessel, and the way it bears its age in such a gracefully unassuming manner.

if a picture is worth 1000 words . . .

This is an orange. It is a bit less ripe, I think, than my key limes. And I had no idea that this was an orange tree until I was so informed. I am abounding in citrus! The discovery of this tree made me decide to photograph it for you all today . . .but it is the escapade surrounding said photo session that concerns me the most now, and that is what I want to tell you about:
Returning home this afternoon, I walked back to the tree, camera in hand. As I did so, I stopped at the sight of a mother hen and her chicks. They were absolutely adorable and I just couldn't help myself . . . I had to touch one! So I began chasing them and, sure enough, I was able to pick up one furry little yellow thing! Satisfied, I put it back down, just before the hen was able to attack with her angry clucking. But then I realized that I should have caught the little guy on camera while I was at it. So I began chasing the brood again, this time camera-ready. As I did so, one of the chicks separated from the rest. At this point I gave up on the photo and instead began trying to corral the chick to get it steered in the direction of its family; instead, it scurried further and further away. And to my horror, I realized that the hen was nowhere to be found . . . did she abandon her baby? Flustered and nearly in tears, I called over the fence to my neighbor and explained to him what I had just done. "So sir, please, do you know if she'll come back for him?"
My neighbor assured me that she would, that I needn't worry . . .
But alas--he is still frantically cheeping outside my window, and it's been over an hour now! What do I do? Should I assume nature will take its course in a kind manner, and leave him be? Or do I give in to the urge to scoop him up and attempt to care for him? Help??

about that wave-catching business . . .

Remember the lovely young wave catcher from a few posts ago? Well today I met another wave-chaser. Only this time it was decidedly less pleasant to watch him, as you would fully understand if I had audio along with my photos. This fellow, you see, in contrast to the young lady's peaceful posture, was in utter agony, from the sound of him: for the entirety of my 30 minutes at the beach, he ran back and forth with an incessant series of anguished yelps. The poor guy was apparently baffled at his vain efforts to capture the elusive sea.

no-fail fun

With the help of a projector screen, laptop, multiple speakers, and some furniture rearranging, my living room turned into a surround-sound theater last night. If their expressions and postures are any indication, I think "Movie Night" was a successful event as far as youth interest/attentiveness goes. It was also rather nice to see that a rather literary flick could be as humorous for teenagers as this one evidently was, drawing hearty laughter that made me laugh with them even though I missed many of the jokes . . . guess I'm getting old :-)

beach babe

So I'm a sucker for good looking young nudes lounging at the beach . . . can you blame me?

a colorful sail

It is very faint in this photo--I almost walked past without seeing it at all. But once I had spotted it, its cheery colors made me smile so I decided it was worth posting. There is one parasail on the water here, with brightly colored stripes, and another in the air, barely visible to the right. I've always thought parasailing seemed like it would be quite delightful, so perhaps I shall be able to try it someday.

the requested cow

As I headed out to the bakery before youth meeting today, I remembered to bring my camera along. The route to the bakery then reminded me that I owed a now long overdue bovine photo to Kel . . . so Kel, here she is! I tried to convince her to look up for you, but she stubbornly ignored my whistling, calling, and mooing, finding her grazing much more interesting than me--I really couldn't blame her :-)

high time for pie

I had never seen these "live" before finding this tree in my yard, but I had a suspicion as to what they were. It turns out I was correct; my friend from church confirmed today that they are, in fact, Key Limes [as she happily relieved me of a sack-full that I had just picked]. They are also, apparently, in their prime stage for use in the kitchen: not quite ripe. Guess I better look for a good recipe . . .

groomed to ride

Today was horse-grooming day for the youth. Well, not all of them, considering the fact that the house was bustling with at least 15 for cooking night yesterday . . . I lost count about the time I realized I was running out of food!
But for today's outing, I had made a deal with the owner of the horses: they would be allowed to ride without cost if they were first willing to learn how to properly groom and care for them. So we were at the stables this afternoon, here making sure that Cherry Pie and Latte were properly shedding their winter coats [and yes, the remainder of the 14 horses are similarly, tastily named :-) ]

to catch a wave

There was no need for me to ask Yasmine any questions as I snapped this shot--I knew precisely what she was doing, as I know I would have done the same had it been me sitting prettily there on the sand, the waves licking her toes . . . she was trying to grasp onto one of those foamy wisps of the sea as they persisted in stubbornly slipped out of her hands.

oh rapturous delight!

Today Nathaniel had his first taste of the sea. His reaction? Words are clearly unnecessary :-)

to dig a hole

Today I asked this diligent worker what she was digging for. Clearly feeling interrupted from her labour, she looked up at me and patiently explained that she was, of course, simply digging a hole.
Being duly corrected, I now know better than to assume the need for anything more than a good hole, as far as reasons for digging on the beach go . . .

the sands of time

I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but my posts have been predominately photo-centered lately. It occurred to me that the reason is that I have not had time to write. This feels like a cop-out sort of thing to say, but it also feels very much like the frank truth. And I don’t even have TV or radio to fill time—but it still is all filled!
I’m not really sure how this happens, but I do hope that it shall pass, and that the time to write shall return.
I am pretty sure that my over-busyness is a simply byproduct of newness is this job/life. Part of it is also due to the fact that this particular job is life-consuming because of the fact that I am housed in the church home; this leads to a constant stream of activity in the home and a subsequent lack of “self” time. Another aspect that crunches time is my reliance on my own two feet, or rides with others, for transportation: errands, activities, and business just takes longer these days.
So what, I wonder, am I doing with my life as it is? Ok. Thinking . . .
I attend Church Wednesdays, Sunday Mornings, and Sunday Evenings. I plan twice weekly Youth Meetings/Outings [last night was cooking night, making lasagna together at my place. Today was horse-back riding day, thanks to a contact I have made with the owner of a local horse farm]. I plan and teach Sunday School. I take whatever Church events are taking place in any given week. I go to choir practice. I sing with the choir.
I manage this house, dealing with plumbing, landscaping, cleaning, and anything that needs doing to prepare for the arrival of a hopefully soon-to-come new pastor. I clean. I re-clean after youth meetings. I clean again. I re-clean again ☺
I buy food for youth events. I prepare said food. I buy more food. I prepare said more food ☺ I tweak the website I’ve been setting up for the church.
I meet with other Youth Workers, through the island-wide Youth Workers' Association. I try to figure out how to manage all my paperwork so that this new Youth Program is properly documented, legally run, and safely conducted.
Well, you get the idea. We all have this thing called life, and it sort of demands to be lived for us all—we no doubt all know what it feels like to run out of time, all the time!
I do hope to—no, plan to—have some decent writings soon. As soon as I can settle into a more normal routine. But in the meantime, please be patient with me as I keep up with my job—with my life—here in this new role in which I find myself.

you're never fully dressed . . .

. . . without a smile. Though smile or none, my young charmer is still significantly more dressed than last I saw him :-)

rubber duckie, you're the one

Initially passing this young charmer with a smile and a wave, I could not resist backtracking in order to intrude upon his privacy--albeit a rather forcedly public sort of privacy, seeing as how his tub is located in his front yard, next to the sidewalk. At any rate, what I did is ask for his permission to take this photograph.
He replied with what is, I suppose, the only reasonable reaction of a young nude lad when approached by a woman: he asked me if I would be his girlfriend.
Since I could not think of any reason why not at the time, I told him I would be honored . . . wonder which number I am in his little black book ☺

palm crosses

This is what I had my students make yesterday morning in Sunday School. It also ended up making for some fun beach fame, as when I was gathering the palm leaves on the beach I ended up making one for a nearby child. She then summoned her friend saying, "Make one for her too, Miss!" And soon I had a small crowd of youngsters lined up for their own palm crosses. I guess you never know when a simple item will be a hit with children.

cayman cuisine

I have been experimenting with local fare in my kitchen lately, trying whatever I can affordably cook. This has led to some definite trial-and-error experiences with common items such as wahoo fish [which I baked whole, figuring out how to go from there], cow heart [surprisingly tasty, and cheap!], and conch [which donated its shell to grace my bathroom decor]. Today was a new one, however. As food prices are sky high, I have so far not been willing to shell out the $12/lb necessary for fresh tuna. But this afternoon I was chatting with some fisherman and this gentleman was kind enough to give me several cuts from his catch: quite an impressive one, as you can see!

a holiday weekend, island style

This is what one does on Easter weekend here on the island: "camping." What it means is that everything shuts down for the weekend [shops, grocery stores, businesses, etc.--everything except for the churches, that is. And families set up tents and live on the beach, carrying with them all they need: stereos for reggae, grills for fish frying, portable showers to use in the public toilets, even televisions.
Granted, in my case, today meant church, choir practice, then going to the beach just long enough for these friends to tease me about my low tolerance for beach bumming . . . just call me "whitey" :-)

ah, sweet youth

During our Youth Meeting last night, I captured on film a rare moment of reflective tranquility as these two young teens gazed thoughtfully at a work of art . . .
Ok, so maybe Cayman youngsters aren't that unlike your average teenager; perhaps, more accurately, they humoured me as I orchestrated their poses in order to have an excuse to take a photo of this painting I found in the house which is my current favourite, and which hangs prominently above my bed.

our daily fish

After taking this fisherman’s photo, I lingered to ask him what kind of fish he was skillfully de-scaling at the time. “Red Snapper,” he replied. Then he looked up at me, asking with mild interest, “Are you a publisher?”
Curious as to what might have prompted this idea, I told him that no, I was not a publisher. But I offered that I did, however, write, and liked to take photos about what I wrote.
“So you write about fish?”
Though I smiled at this thought, I had to admit that it was a reasonable one as I told him that no, I did not. Pausing to think about what, in fact, I did write about, I ended up deciding that it was probably just about “daily life.”
This seemed to satisfy him, as he nodded and then answered, “Yes—fish is daily life.”
How oddly profound, this simple fact.

. . . with silver bells & cockle shells

Passing by Ms. Gardening Gertie's place again today, I paused to admire what I presumed to be the fruits of her labour. It appealed to my aesthetic tastes in an unexpected way, being more vibrantly floral than I generally prefer. As I approached, however, I realized that this was not exactly a fruit of her labour after all: this is in fact simply a pot of fake blooms prominently featured in the center of her smooth-dirt lawn. It is possible, I suppose, that her quirky attire is due to something other than pure gardening bliss . . .

how does your garden grow?

Contrary to what her eclectically layered attire might indicate, the day was actually quite toasty--I like to speculate that this lovely lady gets so lost in her gardening bliss that she is unaware of such trivialities as the weather: all that exists for her in this moment is her gardening spade in her hands and the earth at her feet.

chariots of fire

The local elementary school had "Sports Day" today. So while cheering the young athletes on, I snapped a few photos; this one especially seemed to capture the striking intensity of colors there, what with the Caribbean sky, the athletic uniforms, and the multi-hued youngsters.

life as it is

In case you are tempted to suspect that life here in “paradise” is too good to be true, I thought perhaps I should take the occasion of this day’s events to illustrate that life is life wherever you happen to be living it. In doing so, my intention is not in the slightest to put a damper on my desire to embrace all that life here on the island has to offer; rather, I would simply like to make note of the fact that we must embrace the negative aspects of life as well as the positive: it is only in living through the muck that we can survive to enjoy the goodnesses.
That said, a bit about my day . . .
It began in a usual manner—if one can have a “usual” after only 9 days of life in a new country. At any rate, my usual so far is, of course, a long run, listening to my current podcast. This morning it was a speaker on a popular Christian radio series.
After running a load of laundry, making a few logistical phone calls about the funeral, choir practice, and youth group meeting, I headed out to walk into town for groceries. En route, a friend passed and asked if I needed a ride. Turns out she was also headed to the grocery store, so I hopped in with her and her young niece. As we drove we talked a bit about some of the food costs and the ways that we are learning to save here and there so as to manage the escalating prices. I was saddened as I listened to her, with the weariness evident on her face as she spoke of how difficult is was to make ends meet. I almost worried about our conversation’s appropriateness for 7-year-old Devonia. But then I remembered that I don’t like the idea of censoring “real life” conversations from children—for the most part, that is ☺ Arriving at the store, we made our respective purchases, chatted with neighbors there, and headed out again. I thanked her for saving my kingfish filets from a hot walk home, and they headed back to Sports Day at school.
Next on my agenda, after lunch, was a walk back into town for a quick stop in at the bank—which was really an excuse to take the route passing the beach, which already has a rather powerful pull on me! As I walked I heard a shouted “Hey!” from the workers on the construction site I was passing. Now here I must interject an aside for those of you not accustomed to much traveling or moving around: as a woman, I have developed a thick skin when relying on walking as my means of transportation; I have learned to walk with a stubborn single-minded gait, and with ears that are quick to feign deafness.
Consequently, I immediately assumed the need to pretend I had not heard, for the sake of conserving the small amount of time I had left in my day before the next appointment. I listened carefully as I walked, however, in case I were to hear a valid reason for turning my head. I did not. What I did hear, after several more shouts of “Hey! You!” was a rather startling call of “Whitey!” It took me a moment to process this call, but once I had, I spent the rest of the walk into town and back wondering exactly how I felt about this name. It occurred to me that I was actually a bit hurt on one level. Thankfully I have a “family” here, in the church I am a part of, and in the children and youth I work with. As a result, I am not as easily wounded as I would have been in some of my international stints. But it was a thought-provoking event all the same, making me ponder the ways in which living abroad makes one face a certain amount of prejudice simply by nature of being an obvious foreigner. What I mean by this is that being different in an external way makes you labeled in a manner that local folks simply are not—you lose a certain amount of individuality by nature of having an externally obvious “mark” of difference, as it were.
Once home, I dressed and composed myself for the funeral. This was my first public event where I would be up front for more than just my own church, as this was going to be a pretty well attended funeral for the community. Our song went well [it better have, after a practice that lasted until 10:00 pm the night before!], and the funeral was a simple, tasteful affair. I had never met the deceased, but his 86 years of life were paid good tribute to by his children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. As they always are, the ceremony was a helpful, needed reminder of the necessity of living a mindful life, focused on the long-term and on the truly significant things in a culture that beckons us to be waylaid by all manner of pressing trivialities.
And now my day is done—and I am glad. It is a sweet thing to be back in my peaceful home, alone with my thoughts in a house that is blessedly devoid of any noise save that of the passersby in the street and the roosters next door. It is strange how easy it is to adapt to the quiet of no TV or radio when so recently I was surrounded by that hum in most areas life required me to be at any given moment of the day!
But like I was saying, at the beginning of this post that is turning into quite a wordy one, is that life is the same messy life here in paradise as it is anywhere where life exists. Such is the human experience. And I would not trade it for anything—except perhaps the life that is to come, the life that this present messiness hints at, with tantalizing glimpses and dreamlike moments . . .

a bit of earth

This is a peek at the plot of paradise that I have grown accustomed to . . . the bit of earth that I make every effort to pass by once a day, so that my daily errands can intersect with a swim in the sea and a stroll in the sands.

camera-ready

As I headed out to pick up my bakery order for this evening's youth group meeting, I debated for a moment whether or not to bring my camera. Then I decided that the fact I had remembered it at all was a sign that I should do my blogging duty and carry it . . . so here is a shot of one of the critters that roam freely here. I hope you appreciate the fact that I even sucked up my pride to look utterly touristy holding up my camera while walking on the sidewalk. Not only that, but the resident was pulling in to the drive as I did so. When I stopped to let him go in, he kindly pointed at the Iguana and waved at me to finish taking the photo while he idled and watched. Here he is, picture perfect :-)

perfectly paired

As requested, I carried my camera with me today while walking to the phone shop to purchase a local phone plan. Sure enough, it came in handy: this pair of striped bathers stopped me in my tracks while I headed to the water for my afternoon dip. And they were kind enough to allow me to snap this shot of them when I asked their permission, so you can all share my heart-warmed moment :-)

whiter than snow

It was a scene plucked straight out of stereotypical Southern gospel lore.
White-robed choir members swayed in sync with each other, clapping as the sang.
Parishioners raised their arms in the air, swaying from one bare foot to the other in the sand while they proclaimed their ‘Hallelujah!’s.
The preacher beckoned us all to come be washed clean, baptized of the Spirit. Waves rolled in over him, swirling the layers of his robe till they billowed up to his outstretched arms.
As I approached for my between-services swim in the ocean, I paused next to a cluster of women attired in all their Sunday finery of frocks and hats and frills. Since I had not yet drawn near enough to see the actual goings on in the water [all I could see from there was a large crowd of onlookers], I turned to one of the ladies: Excuse me, Ma’am—is something happening here?
“Why yes, honey—something GOOD is happening here!”
At this point I guessed at the nature of the crowd, so I nodded and said, Ah—a baptism?
“Why yes,” she said, taking stock of my beach tote and probable tourist-like appearance. “Do you believe in baptism?,” she continued.
Pausing for a moment to consider the ramifications of my words, I replied, Yes Ma’am, I do.
“And have you been baptized?” she said, gazing pointedly at me as she emphasized the “you” in her question.
At this point I paused slightly longer, wondering if my Presbyterian-style baptism would be seen as valid in her eyes. But I answered with confidence,
Yes Ma’am, I have!, and bid her goodbye as I continued on to claim a spot on the sand.
Who knows—I may have just passed up my only opportunity to be washed by the blood on Caymanian sands . . .

someday . . .

This morning I enjoyed the company of Elder Raymond as we unbolted and took down the storm shutters. When I moved in the house’s interior was darkened, all the windows being protectively shielded from hurricanes—the last resident preferred it that way as it keeps the place relatively cool. I am not so practical, I’m afraid, preferring the sunlight. So the church kindly accommodated my request for their removal.
Sitting in the living room afterwards, admiring the sunny results of our work, I gazed out the side window. As I did, Elder Raymond asked if I had noticed that I had a sentry out there. When I looked in the direction he indicated, I found this fellow firmly grasping the window pane. He seemed to be sullenly holding his ground, as if to make it clear that he was utterly perturbed to have his cubby so rudely opened to the light by our intrusion.
I do hope he chooses to remain here. I also hope he decides to forgive my demolition of his home; perhaps if he does, he will allow me to pucker up and plant a prince-worthy smacker on his horny hide.