No Time Like the Present

Hi there,

Long time, no chat. It’s been nearly two years since I’ve posted on this site, and MAN, what a two years it’s been. I keep saying I want to write again (in fact, opening up this site today I see that this is one of six different attempts I’ve made, entries saved as drafts, to return to this blog space; each time I write, I shy away from the “publish” button, or even the process altogether). But today feels different somehow. Today, I’m writing for myself, not for some intended (arbitrary or real) audience; today, I’m writing just for me - a chance to turn inward, to neglect the laundry that’s piling up, the dishes in the sink, for a brief moment of nap time indulgence, a moment of self-reflection.

So here goes.

As I center myself and try to decide what the heck to write, I find my mind drifting to notice all that surrounds me. Over the steady hum of the air-conditioning unit behind me, cooling the room in which my child sleeps, I hear the belting tenor of a Mexican ballad float over the trees from the neighbor’s roof down below. The soft sonority tells me that the owners must be home, for the gentlemen building the structure belt their serenades with pride and a certain joie-de-vivre in the proprietors’ absence. (The other day I “Shazammed” their music (yes, Shazam is still as thing, as I gladly discovered in that moment) and learned that the artist’s name was El Fantasma, which led me down a deep Spotify rabbit hole into the world of Mexican music; let’s just say my “Liked” playlist added several new tracks from that brief melodious excursion.) Today, the music is soft, though its energy remains spirited.

I sip my tea - slightly bitter with hints of orange and a twinge of sweetness from the spoonful of honey I blithely stirred into the steamy murk moments ago. Its crispness wakens me, as I inhale its piquant aroma.

A crinkling sound from below the deck rouses me, and I rise from my seat, curious. I peek over the railing, and beneath me I see soldier crabs, at least twenty, probably more, gnawing at the tin from last night’s dinner, devouring whatever scraps Dante didn’t manage to gobble in his clean up duties.

Back at my seat again, I watch the butterflies dance from tree to tree - yellow ones, white ones, monarchs. Have they flown South for the winter?

A threshie has landed on the railing’s sill; it locks eyes with me, cocks its head, and gives me a sassy stare-down. I smile, remembering how Finn referred to one as a “tree chicken” the other day while we were crouched under the portia tree at our special spot at Hawksnest. I don’t think I’ll ever see a threshie again and be able to think of anything other than tree chicken.

Sometimes toddlerhood is delightful.

To my right, the flamboyant tree stands firmly, its tiny leaves dancing elegantly on their stems, which spread, fractal-like, like ferns, and seed pods dangle. Lush and green, come dry season, the leaves will fall, and the tree will be bare, naked and exposed. But after that first rain, the leaves will return, and with them, red blossoms, like fiery plumage, will emerge, shrouding the deck in a canopy of sanguine efflorescence.

I pop an olive into my mouth - Kalamata, a delectable St. Thomas find during Monday’s inter-island jaunt - a monthly (or so) occurrence, in which we ride the car barge across Pillsbury Sound to Redhook, which might as well be on another planet, its energy shift is so acute. On St. Thomas, cars bustle, horns blare, vendors line the streets selling fruit to locals and trinkets to tourists. A fellow St. Johnian once referred to St. Thomas as “St. Trauma” as we waited in line to catch the barge back home, exhausted, sweaty, smiling. Cars loaded to the brim with various provisions.

St. Trauma.

I feel the undersides of my tongue moisten, as the salty olive kisses my tastebuds. A simple delight.

I revel in each umber morsel, then douse what remains of Finn’s lunch avocado in the leftover brine at the bottom of my bowl. I relish in the saline velvet as it slips down my throat to nourish my body from within.

I am happy.

I glance around me again, and notice the less peaceful bits of my surroundings: the scattered toys, strewn about without a perceptible rhyme or reason to the grown-up’s eye; to the toddler’s eye, however, an order, which those ripened souls like mine may never know. A squishy gorilla who spits water, a donkey figurine, and a blue block stuffed inside a tin can. A cloth apple, a submarine, a pink stacking ring, a mermaid baby, and a frying pan inside a laundry basket. Training underwear hidden beneath a cardboard box, potty tossed about in pieces, likely in protest. A stack of rocks piled neatly in the corner, which I watched him build, hours ago, with steadfast precision.

I resist the urge to jump up, tidy everything, sort the toys into their appropriate bins, reset before he awakens for his next creative explosion. I encourage myself to sit, be present, write. I breathe and remind myself: my house looks like a toddler lives here.

I smile and laugh at the absurdity of my incessant need to strive for perfection. My house looks like a place that is lived in. And, in this moment, that is good enough.

I gaze up, and my focus shifts once again to the butterflies that bop from tree to tree, all around me. I wonder how I’ve lived here for nearly five years, and have never paused to simply observe them.

A sense of peace washes over me, and I feel rooted, in this moment, while the soft breeze gently rustles the silky hairs on my arms, and I wait for my baby to wake up from his nap.