Volcanic mountain cliffs of luscious jungle plunge into the ocean. Mangos and bananas grow in orchards in the small, shallow valleys as the car comes into low lying areas, and I can smell the rot of standing water. I see men smoking weed at fruit stands and women with baskets on their heads. Children are playing wearing tattered clothing and no shoes, goats and chickens roam freely, unafraid of the cars whizzing past on the low ground.
Then the car whips up again, climbing and winding up hundreds of feet as the island wraps us around and around in the folds of her skirt, opening up to reveal her beautiful surf under jagged rocks below. She's showing off.
I think of this the next day as I'm lying on the most beautiful beach on a different island, white sand in between my toes and every shade of ocean before me. I recall the events of the mountain island the day before.
Today, the ocean belongs to me.
"The water is speaking in a language I knew before the world taught me it's language.
I lie there and let the sound of the surf massage my soul for two hours.
I let it speak to me and I do not speak back.
I just receive.
I understand with great gratitude I could rest here forever, offer the sea nothing in return
And it would never stop speaking to me.
The surf is gentle and selfless and steady.
This is not a transaction.
This is a gift." -Glennon Doyle
Yes, today the ocean belongs to me. I hear its gentle surf and sip on rum as music plays. I put on a mask and a snorkel, and I venture out a little deeper to receive some additional fruits from her tree of life. A turtle feasting on chum, gracefully gliding in the water playing with the fish that float by...coming up for air, and down again in childlike banter with us humans watching from above. The ocean gives, and it gives, and it gives. It never asks for anything in return. Come play with me, it says. Come rest on my sand and swim in my surf until you are so tired that you nap. Eat my gems, I will feed you with my bounty. My salt water heals, for inside you is salt water and you came from me...for your life originated in the sea.
But yesterday, the mountains told a different story. Every turn and every twist of the road resembled the people there, trying to make their next meal. Their forceful nature was a product of living in such treacherous conditions, climbing up winding streets only to come down again for flat road does not seem to exist there. No, the mountains are theirs. These are the mountains their ancestors were brought to on slave ships, coming to St Lucia against their will. The history of violence on this island is evident everywhere, and the jagged rocks happily tell the story that the inhabitants won't.
My thoughts drift to the mountains that do belong to me. The mountains I've just finished climbing culminated in the wedding, honeymoon, and marriage of my visions. My goals were fierce. My mountains were steep. There were many...my relationship with my children and my new husband, financial goals, weight loss goals, career aspirations...those were my mountains. I realize that I've just reached the summit of every one of these crests simultaneously as I look up at Grand Piton. I think about what new mountains are on my horizon. I realize that I can't wait to find them and start ascending. Something about the climb draws me in.
In the weeks before we left DC for Texas, four people I knew of took their own lives. Two were famous and rich, one was a soldier's wife. The last was a student at my son's school, an 8th grader. He was fourteen. His younger sister was in my daughter's 5th grade class. I think of them on that beach, with that ocean giving and giving. I think of them as I look up at Grand Piton. I allow the hallows to infiltrate, just for a little while, for this moment is holy and must be ordained. I open myself up to the salty air and realize that beauty does not come without pain. I don't understand it, but I know I must acknowledge and honor it. I have my own little moment of silence for them. For the slaves that came to Saint Lucia, for the children in the streets without shoes, for the chickens scrounging for a bug...I open myself up in my porous way that I don't fully understand about myself. I let in the light. I let in the darkness. Those mountains are not mine, I only get to witness them and their treacherous beauty. They only share their view with me long enough to give me a taste of something spectacular on the horizon. As much as I'd like to climb them, we must each find and conquer the mountains that are meant for us.
I think of my three children, two born from my womb and one that God gifted to me. My heart aches a little, here in paradise, for they are not with me. There are many trips that belong to them, but this is not one. I miss them. Beauty and pain. The shallows and the depths. Light and dark.
Mountains and ocean.