Thistle Tea…

 When I was five years old,  the man I was named after died at the of age 62.   I have no direct memories of him.   I’m told he was a serious fellow,  a hard worker, a successful entrepreneur, strong in faith, family and frugality, and since he was married to my grandmother for over forty years, probably a heckuva good dancer.  

I will be 62 next week.  Well aware that the coconut does not fall far from the tree, I admit to being a little nervous.  Since photos were not commonplace back then, there are only two photos of him and me together, both black and white and fading and cherished greatly.   Rarely do I look at the photos but I still keep these sweet links to our past stored safely in the cloud with my digital collection of over 10,000 other photos.  

One photo shows the two of us soaking our feet in a bucket of warm salt water.  I’m looking at the camera talking about something.  He is smiling down at me.  Must have been quite the moment for us both.  I look awkward.  He looks great.   

So, last night I had a vivid dream.  Like in the photo, Papa and I are both soaking our feet.  It’s so real I can feel the warm water between my toes and hear my grandmother clanging in the kitchen.   Papa smiles at me.   

And in black and white, he tells me, “Drink thistle tea”.   Never heard of it.  But he repeats himself, “Drink thistle tea!”

I’m five.  I ask “How do I get it?”  

“You buy it at the store.  It’s two hundred dollars.  Go get it.  I’ll pay for it.”  

And he hands me his charge card.  

I wake up startled and more than a little curious about this unheard of bit of healthcare advice from a man who I am genetically aligned with and who died at the age I will be next week.  Popping out of bed I head straight to the computer and type in the Search Bar “thistle tea”.   I hit “Enter”.

The old photo of me and my grandfather soaking our feet pops up.    

Ordered that tea on the spot and been drinking it ever since.   

Finally, as I sip my grandfather’s warm thistle tea,  which according to the internet is full of a powerful antioxidant called Silymarin that fights cancers of the gastrointestinal tract AND is endorsed by my Papa,  I leave you with a few quotes, two from Englishmen who know their tea, and one from an American who knows his rum.  

“I have lived more of my life than is to come.  How do I face this imponderable idea that one day I am not going to exist anymore?  I make art.  I tell stories.”

— Sting

“When youth departs may wisdom prove enough.”

— Winston Churchill 

“Life is a journey that’s not measured in miles or years, but in experiences.

But if there’s a heaven for me, I’m sure it has a beach attached.”

– Jimmy Buffett

Cheers!!!

The Tree…

An old rusty and broken saw was all I had.  But with the wet season in full force the Caribbean almond tree had grown too large.  Its ever expanding branches encroached mercilessly on our favorite flamboyant tree and blocked our view of the hillside and bays below us.  Would the stressed flamboyant tree be unable to blossom this year  and feed our hungry herd of iguanas?  No doubt.  The almond invader had to go. 

The Caribbean almond tree, Terminalia catappa, is unrelated to the tree that produces edible almonds.  It sprouts up anywhere on the island and grows quickly.  I had hoped it was a mango tree or a key lime tree which would soon bear us some delicious fruit.  But no luck.  

This tree had decided to live on a 45 degree slope surrounded by loose rocks near a bundle of thorny “catch and keep” bushes below our new deck.  Here you sometimes have to make do with what you have to meet the challenges of the day.  So, covered up with long pants and sleeves, and a mismatched pair of gloves which was all I could find, I popped on my Beach Bar cap and my Maui Jim sunglasses to protect my eyeballs.  I was ready for anything.  Armed with an extendable pruning saw with an incredibly dull and rusty blade, I eased into the jungle which is our backyard.  

The cool prevailing Caribbean breeze on our deck quickly gave way to the oppressive heat and humidity you would expect on land that had previously been a Danish cotton plantation.  Fortunately no snakes here for centuries because the French brought the mongoose who ate them all.  But there is the terrifyingly toxic manchineel  tree with its poisonous “death apples” that Christopher Columbus’s crew fatally discovered on his second voyage here in 1493.  And I don’t know what it looks like.  

Then there’s the stinging nettle plants whose long thorns are like hypodermic needles and inject histamine below your skin when you bump into them intensifying the painful burn.  Don’t touch anything unless you know what it is. 

And the Christmas bush, which is very common throughout the island contains urishiol, similar to poison ivy.  Contact with this plant causes burning, itching rashes and lesions that can spread if untreated.  Great. 

I am watching out for Jack Spaniard wasp nests.  No relation to Captain Jack Sparrow but still packs a sting that would make a pirate cry.  These wasps are very aggressive and will chase you down if you disturb their nest.  Each can sting you five times with their strong venom which is a major antigen that requires a specific antidote if you are allergic to them.  I’m pretty sure I’m not allergic.  

And finally there are those pesky Arnold Schwartznegger body building mosquitoes which here seem to fly easily even on the windiest of days. They rarely may carry Dengue, Zika or Chikungunya diseases.  Not today so they’re probably gone to workout. 

A twig snaps.  I hear a sound.  Probably an iguana.  A bird I don’t recognize flies by.  A bug buzzes my ear.  “Arnold” I mutter.  Workout must be over.  I swat at it.  I miss.  I slide further down the slope. 

And then, there it is.  The tree.  I engage it with the blade several times finally getting the right angle with my feet placed at sturdy positions.  Back and forth, over and over again I get a cut started.  Deeper into the trunk slowly but surely, like a butter knife through a pineapple, I make progress.  Just like my Dad taught me except he had a chain saw.  I slip several times.  Don’t grab anything.  Sweating profusely and breathless but past the point of no return I press on.  Just like my Mom, a legendary hard worker, taught me.  She picked cotton as a child laborer so she would love this.  My shoulders ache.  My nose is running.  Is it getting darker?  An unknown thorny vine has wrapped itself around my leg.  The blade falls off the handle.  I retrieve it and stomp it back together.  I should have bought a new saw I tell myself.  I try a different angle with the saw.  

Then through!  The tree cracks and creeps.  But does not fall.  It remains suspended in the air, its trunk held magically aloft by the branches of our friendly flamboyant tree and all the other forces working against me.  I rest a bit in disbelief.  

Plan B.  I grab the trunk with both hands. (I hope this is not a machineel tree.).  I lean all my considerable weight plus the added pounds from all those Painkillers I’ve been drinking this week onto the tree.  And we both start sliding down the slope.  The trees above me creak and crack.  The flamboyant lets go.  And the almond tree follows me down the slope.  Success.  

The next morning we are greeted by a much better view of the blues and greens of the Caribbean Sea, a very happy flamboyant tree who has sprouted a few new orange blossoms during the night and four busy green iguanas enjoying their new home.  

“Well done!” they seem to say.

We Work.....

We work to play to feel the wind and sea
To cool the hot, tired soul that strives to rise
Again from ashes, sweat no more this tree
Stronger, vibrant, reach for the sun to live.

Work comes first to pave the heart’s way home
Bound no more once daytime toil’s done well
Free to fill the spirit and free to roam
To laugh and wonder at Earth’s grandest show.

Twilight will come, deep sleep to follow knowing 
The sun will rise to greet you with a song
This day will be a great one to embrace 
Before horns blow to start our work once more.

The Sign....

One could not help but notice them while driving around our new Caribbean neighborhood.  Each home had a style and structure unlike any other.  Each had a distinctive name.  Like “Sea Forever”, “Reef Madness” or “Great Expectations”.  And that name was displayed at its entrance on signs that were all the same style but customized by its creator, the old island potter in the village below us who for years had turned out hundreds of these popular signs.  On this diverse island they were a unifying spirit. 

We happily marched in to meet him.  An island artist with a friendly face and penetrating eyes, he went right to work to design what he described as an enduring work of art for our home.  Six weeks later we proudly held our expensive piece of custom clay with the word “Magic” scrolled on it.  Adorned with a calm blue sea and a palm tree, it was actually three pieces which fit together like a puzzle to form a serene scene befitting the name we chose for our new home in paradise.  “Magic”.  We loved it. 

During a family visit my son, my Uncle Dan and I carefully selected the best spot to place this masterpiece and after much consideration chose the flat face of a large boulder flanking our driveway.  With exterior construction adhesive we permanently bonded each fragile piece to the heavy granite block.  “That should hold it”,  Uncle Dan quipped admirably as we finished our work four hundred feet up a hillside.  That sign would last an eternity.

Eight years later, the storm hit.  Wind speeds higher than ever recorded headed toward our little island.  Back in the states I worked but in between patients kept checking the live satellite images, watching in horror as the eye of the hurricane crept closer and closer to our island community.  Wind speeds increased.  Forecasts worsened.  The computer images sickened me.  

An unexplained gap in my schedule allowed me a break just as the eye careened into land.  Closing myself in a private space,  I just sat.  Eyes closed.  Meditating.  My breathing quickened.  My heart raced.  With trembling hands  I prayed.  My skin tingled as if frozen and I could not move.  Like the voodoo rituals of the shaman of Obeah, I felt spirited into the center of the storm.  

Magically transported back to my island home I could feel the sand at my feet and the tropical foliage brushing against my skin.  My strength grew.  My sweaty arms wrapped around the body of the island buffering the horrible winds.  My shoulders braced against palm trees lending them support.  Like a stone wall my hands secured sandy shores.  With toes dug into the flooding earth my rain soaked body stiffened as the relentless winds pummeled our home.  A panicked child watching a sandcastle melt into a rising tide, I felt at once both helpless and empowered.  I grabbed for more and heaved against the strengthening storm.  The winds roared until all sound just disappeared.  At the moment the storm hit,  I was there.  

A month went by before we got the news.  The worst storm to ever hit the tropics had for five horrible hours blown 200 mph winds across our island demolishing homes and dreams.  Trees snapped.  Boats sank.  Roofs were blown away.  While two homes above us succumbed to a tornado which spewed pieces of it onto our land, “Magic” had leaned hard into those winds bending but not breaking.

When we returned two months later, the community was unrecognizable and damage was extensive but our home was still standing.  Digging through the pieces of twisted metal and broken lumber under the watch of our resilient palm trees, it was hard to find paradise.  Whole trees were gone.  Parts of our home were missing.  Including our beloved sign, boulder and all.

As I explored the rubble, a rustling sound caught my attention. Under a fallen tree limb and a pile of debris, something was moving.  I pulled back a tree branch and there grinning back at me was a fist-sized hermit crab busily crawling away.  “Hey little fella!  What’s your name?”  I asked, halfway expecting a response.  He was half a mile from the nearest shoreline, high up our hillside but looking none the worse from the storm.

Following the tiny traveler a bit, he led me to another fallen tree but I lost him when he ducked under another branch.  Pulling back that branch, the little visitor had disappeared.  But there, hiding under the chaos, sat our sign.  “Magic” was unbroken and still clinging to that big boulder which the storm had somehow shoved down the hill.  

Removed from that boulder too big to move, "Magic" now rests in a different place but still a welcoming spirit to all creatures who visit us, great and small.

Day Five....

Day Five.  

Today we were not naked. And we were not afraid.  Just alone.  Except for the mosquitoes.  The generator doesn't work.  Our solar charger broke.  We lost our wifi signal.  The gas station is out of gas.  No ice at the store.  A pretty hot day made working on the villa repair list extra tiring.  We need two new windows, a new roof and replacement gutters but without parts we could not do much more than paint and clean.  A short hike to a secluded bay sounded like a good way to cool off so we packed our gear and headed to a beach. 

The hike was a familiar one but because of the storm damage to trees the aggressive growth of low plant life encroached eerily on the footpath.  Fewer hikers over the last two months meant lots more weeds.  Thorny Catch an' Keep grabbed at our legs.  Fallen prickly cactus and pieces of Monkey No Climb littered our trail.  National Park Service volunteers had cleared the fallen trees but the growing grasses lining the trail were now six feet high and thick.  Thankfully there are no snakes on the island but I would not have been surprised to see a lion jump out at us from the surrounding thicket.  We plodded onward sweating from the humidity and swatting at bugs gnawing on our necks.  To our right wild pineapples sprouted.  To our left a tree branch tied with a red ribbon with the words "killer tree" and a skull with crossbones warned us to think about turning back.  We ducked under another fallen tree and climbed down a rocky trail to the isolated beach. 

This had been a thin white sandy beach with coconut palm trees providing shade. We mournfully stepped over those same palm trees now lying on their sides sad and lifeless and scanned the now rocky beach for signs of life.  We were alone. 

Plunging into the sparkling water we snorkeled over the traumatized reef.  A couple of territorial lion fish hid under a ledge terrorizing and eating our harmless baby reef fish.  Lion fish quills are beautiful but poisonous so we kept our distance, noted our location relative to the beach and made a mental note to report these two criminals to the National Park Ranger office.  They will send out divers to spear the fish and keep them from doing any further damage to our fragile reef ecosystem.   A school of needlenose fish threaded past us.  A large barracuda appeared beside us like Batman, then disappeared just as suddenly.  Surfacing beside us for its obligatory three gulps of air, a big sea turtle said a big hello then retreated to the safety of its sea fans below.   Some parts of the reef looked just fine. 

On our walk back along the water's edge we dodged boulders from a recent rock slide.  We detoured around two massive boats deposited on the rocks completely out of the water by the hurricane's huge storm surge.  We recognized one of the boats as the sailboat we had enjoyed our first St. John cruise on nearly ten years ago.  An octopus startled us in the shallows siphoning and squirting water as he charged us, angry that we had interrupted his search for food.  He grabbed a rock and tried to disguise himself without success so charged us again.  He grabbed another rock.  A terrified crab scurried out of the water at our feet, claws extended and ready to pinch should we interfere with his escape from the hungry octopus.  A small lemon shark swam over to investigate all the commotion.  We laughed at this collection of silly sea predators behaving badly at our feet and visible to us from the safety of dry land. 

A tropical rain shower blew in quickly, thunder echoing between the green hillsides, its droplets stinging our skin and pushing us back along the trail.  We crossed a small stream that had not been there before the rain started.  A bashful egret took wing while a brave heron just stared at us stoically.  Two frigates soared high above us.  A mile later we arrived at our jeep and looking back where we had been we were graced with a full rainbow. 

God blesses this place. 

Day Four....

Day Four.

Today we hunted and gathered.  After a breakfast of Juice Plus Complete nutrition drink and some dried fruit Toni had gathered from back home we hunted our entire neighborhood this morning and saw upclose the damages a storm like this can do.  Most homes have significant damage; some are blown away.  We were fortunate.  We repaired the damage to our deck by replacing some missing floor panels with salvage pieces we had to saw with a tree branch pruner, then we shored up a broken corner with long galvanized screws and a special drill bit we had to hunt down at the St. John hardware store.  That is part of a routine here.  Start a project but realize you need to charge a tool battery or go find a part or a tropical rain shower bursts on you and that requires you to interrupt the repair.  So you improvise, or change and work on a different project. Things take more time to get done.  Everywhere we look there is something that needs attention but it gets done in segments. 

Without refrigeration we shop daily for food and ice if we can get it.  Ice even in a cooler will only last a day.  We eat a meal or two at local food places and since most are near hot spots we use that time to pirate their free wifi and get some internet stuff done.  Gas and material shortages are still a concern.  Every day we use a generator and our solar panels to recharge our devices.  Communications with insurance people and property manager team members and people back home are slow and erratic but we know they are doing their best under the circumstances.  Three people who helped me today each lost their homes but they continue to help us and others while dealing with their own personal chaos.  We are so grateful for them. 

After reading the book Sapiens by Yuval Harari, I compare the lives of our ancestors who were hunters and gatherers way back when to what we are experiencing.  They spent most of their day hunting for food and water and gathering those things they needed and then did it again the next day.  So are we, but life is much easier now.  Or is it?  Back home I work a 50 to 60 hour work week.  Our ancestors spent maybe only 35 hours a week hunting and gathering.  So I have little time to create and enjoy art and music; they had an abundance of time to watch the stars, dance, tell stories and be with family.  I stress about patient care decisions, money, and business challenges.  They worried about being eaten by a lion but that didn't happen often.  Instead of being scattered hundreds of miles away, their protective families and communities were close and supportive.  And since their food was fresh and organic they likely had a lot better nutrition than we do and consequently less disease. 

This week I have not checked the news or watched TV.  I have not worked for money.  I have not engaged in stressful business dealings.  My interactions with our community have been kinder and more meaningful.  Instead each day I absorb the peace of a sunrise and a sunset and soak in the sound of a tropical rain tapping on my roof.  My interactions with our small community have been kinder and more meaningful.  I have read books, written stories and watched the night sky.  Last night in the darkness of the island with no lights we were entertained by a stupendous meteor shower performing over our deck.  There will be another one tonight. 

Scanning the clear blue horizon with a even clearer mind I ponder frivolous ideas like why the first voyagers bravely paddled to this island, whether invading pirates of days gone by could sail into Rendezvous Bay below me to reach me with their cannonfire, and how a hermit crab under my stairs got there, six hundred feet from the ocean.  In a quiet bay today I snorkeled upon a large spotted eagle ray and a school of cuttlefish.  As they circled curiously under me over and over again I wondered what they must be thinking about me.  About my species.  And how we spend our brief time here. 

Day Three....

Day Three.

Today we played.  The cloud cover finally evaporated enough to let the sun work its magic.  A rainbow welcomed us from our sleep.  New vegetation glowed green as the jungle here reclaimed its dominance.  Our iguanas warmed up enough to crawl out of their trees.  Donkeys paraded around their newest kin and she nibbled happily on the low leaves. Waterfalls burst from the rocks as the recent flooding worked its way down the hillsides. The bays glowed an iridescent array of blues and greens and beckoned us from our home high above it all to come play.  So we did. 

Let the island come to you, I advise our friends and family when they visit.  It will call you.  With its history it will call you.  With its people it will call you.  With its beauty it will call you.  The phrase "island soon come" encourages patience while you wait for the call and promises a spiritual connection when you do.

We head to one of the top ten beaches in the world to say hello again to Trunk Bay, afraid to see firsthand the damage to it from the storms. There were only eight people on the beach including me and Toni and we tentatively explore the destruction.  I hold my breath as we follow the familiar path to the white sands and with relief we see the beautiful colors of the water erupt before us.  A fish jumps. Two frigates glide overhead while a couple of pelicans speed past.  The mesmerizing panoramic vistas of distant islands are unchanged but looking down the beach the damage to the vegetation is obvious.  Palm trees down.  Sand shifted.  Seagrapes ruined by the storm surge.  But these will come back and are already showing signs of rebirth.  I exhale.  Grin.  And run to jump in.  

The warm cerulean water is renewing.  Its healing powers massage my soul.  Its waves buoy my spirit.  Relieved to see the clear bottom below, I swim out and see more signs of life.  A sea fan waves.  A school of fish plays along the stressed reef, still covered with a thin layer of sediment but improving with each passing month.  As I soak it all in, I reflect on the beauty of the paradise that has been here for millennia and am reminded that we are just passing through, caretakers of this playground and guardians of its spirit.  

With our love the island of Saint John will call us again. 

For you.  For all of us.  Island soon come.