Calm Blue

Photographed by John Smith

Monosyllabic gaze

A gentle insistence

Honey-colored mornings

Hypnotic patterns – calm blue

Crimson thoughts, chilling notes

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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney

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The Pause to Create

Photographed by John Smith

It is the middle of the week and many are burdened by the maelstrom of every day activities. Some even refer to Wednesdays as “Weary Wednesday.” It is a must that we create and inspire others as well. I encourage you to take a pause/break to be quiet and reflect so you can connect to your spiritual thoughts and be more productive in whatever your goals are today.

In a noisy busy world

A  sensation to escape

The hubbub of digital technology

Coaxed instructions encroach

Passing moments

Eat  into every sphere of our lives

Eyes closed

Seeking still moments

between sound and silence

Stillness flourishes

Like a well rehearsed silence

Relish, re-attune, reconnect

to deep lying emotions

Day dreaming – still moments

A settling inner peace

Stimulates in a piercing world.

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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney

Rendezvous

Image taken from My Montserrat

Incited passions

On deserted sandy coves

Pan-seared delights on picnic blankets

Shimmering moments in the sun

Undeniable satisfying

Wild life, wet, salty breeze

Dearest memories

The unthinkable

Replenish lost energy

Brightly colored on

private narrow cays

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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney

Heartfelt Habits

Photographed by Alex Shalman

Okay, I was in the kitchen frying some plantains and was too lazy to use the fork to turn them over, so I used the knife in my hand. My grandmother’s voice echoed in my ear as my husband peeped over my shoulder and said you will make the knife dull. My reply was no I should not use the knife in a hot pan because mama said doing that would giving me ‘cutting in my stomach.’ He said that he is sure that is not the reason why she didn’t want me to use the knife for cooking. He said maybe she just wanted you to use a spoon and that was the reason she gave you. Who can tell if that was her real reason or who can tell how far back generationally this ‘cutting in your belly’ tradition goes back? When you really think of it I was dependent upon and trusted my grandmother and her advice was written in stone. I did not think what she said was invalid or even question the concept. I adapted anything and everything from her. This story is like that ham story where people for years have been cutting off the ends of the ham because of tradition or habit, but the real reason was that originally both ends of the ham were cut to fit in a small pan. As my friend Susan puts it so eloquently “how rich our lives become as we learn each day, from our assumptions, lack of knowledge, oversights, and even mistakes.”

Hurdles

Photographed by Anthony Asael

Can you believe that it is week 17 of 2010 and it feels like so many things have happened in so few weeks? Wow! We thought we said goodbye to the recession blighted old year of 2009. Now there is still financial crisis and recession which continues to shock the world, the growing fiscal deficits which call for the increase dependence on the World Bank and IMF.   Many have sleepless nights over environmental risks; many mention ‘going green.’ Also there is the unpredictability of the weather leaving billions homeless and millions dead. There is ethnic strife, famines, increased civil wars, ongoing guerilla conflicts. So far this is quote an exhaustive list but far from complete, the losses of 2010 are profound. In contrast, hey, the upside is that gold has regained popularity with Central Banks across the world.

On a more local level when we visit the grocery stores we see prices increasing.  To understand the conundrum that we are in we need to take a step back and see ourselves. We would be faced with obstacles no matter what. Let us put it this way the more mountains we climb the stronger our legs become, the fitter we get and the better we feel. Do not be sidetracked, be encouraged, and be excited by ‘tough times’ because these impediments would make us be the giant we all would like to become.

Folks have a wonderful day!

Ravaged Places

Photographed by Brenda l. McCartney

I remembered the first time I visited Montserrat after the volcanic crisis; a friend took me to visit the danger zone. Plymouth (the capital) was uninhabitable and totally abandoned, boxes of shoes lay in shoe stores, curtains blew from opened windows, and the town was so empty that you could hear an echoing sound from the wind in every direction. I did not cry and my friend asked if I was that cold. In hindsight, I realized there are certain losses that are deeper than tears. I carried the loss within me then and still now; for me it was a mixture of emotions.

In my later teens and into my early adulthood I enjoyed my island as everyone should. For example there were many Fridays I packed my clothes into a nap sack and did not return to my home until Mondays as I traversed every mountain trail, drank from many ghauts and rivers and rested under many trees that provided shade from South to North of Montserrat. I did not have a sleeping bag or tent but sheets and slept in the open under the sky. The spirituality of every track, soil, bank, hill, mountain and river that once thrust inside me had once again bonded me to those moments as I gazed at my ravaged town.  I am thankful that I experienced those sacred places and they took me in before they were filled with debris or were obliterated.

Another of my memories was going with my mother to her work place which stood on St. Georges Hill. That location provided one of the most picturesque views of Plymouth and surrounding villages. Later, I visited the location during another visit where the impact from the pyroclastic flow blew out the inside of the building and banked the cliff the building stood on just seconds short totally obliterating the entire place.

One of the most amazing things is that while I am writing this post, is that I did not verbalize what I am writing but my daughter just stood beside me saying that she was painting a volcano. That is the power of connection. So even though she is a descendant who has not traversed the ghauts, mountains, hills and gullies of Montserrat there is soulful connection. Isn’t life a mystery?

As the news media is bombarded with various natural disasters Iceland, Haiti, India, China, Montserrat and so many others, I empathize with the losses but there is one thing we all have that can never be taken from us. That is our memories; the stories, the experiences and the collective understanding as these calamities are all unique as they have affected what we call home.

The Montserrat Mermaid

The Oxford Concise English Dictionary defines Legend as “as a traditional story sometimes popularly regarded as historical but unauthenticated; a myth.” Okay it is Easter Sunday and in Montserrat there is a legend that there is a white mermaid who appears at the top of Chances Pond every Easter at midnight. Hundreds of Islanders would climb Chances Mountain which is 3002ft using torches. They said that one must arrive before dawn take the mermaids comb from her and ran to the sea before they could be caught they would be rich for life. They never said exactly what you should do with the comb once you arrived at the seashore.

“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp…”

Splendor

There is a picture of a painting that hung in my office that everyone would always stop to notice.

It was a composition and combination of vibrant colors that immediately captivated my attention the first time I saw it. The picture captures a fusion of sulfur, alum, gypsum and iron oxides (volcanic minerals) at the bottom of a gorge which dissect the mountains. On either side of the mountain are ferns, woodlands of mosses and lichens. The streams cascades at various levels over the edge to collect in two pools.

The painting depicts an area at the top of the Great Alps waterfall in Montserrat. It was painted by a local Montserratian artist and friend Kevin West. This area was destroyed by the volcano but today the painting has a coolness that fills my home. Although I am not sharing the painting with you in this post; I will show you a very similar photograph. The photograph at the top of the page, is a post card taken of the same area.

I am thankful for the creation of photography which dates back to the 1820s because today it allows me to enjoy such austere beauty.

Today let us celebrate and enjoy the photographs that provide such comfort as they grace our homes.

Rain Water

Yesterday I was bemused, as outside was overcast but not raining. After that I heard water pouring from a roof into a barrel.  I recollected that this was normal in my culture. Most roofs were made of tin (Galvanized, steel, metal). In order to economize we would catch rain to lower the cost of the water that came to the houses from the springs. This was also used to minimize the chlorine treated water. Some people held the view that rain water was healthier to drink. I also recently discovered that collecting rain water is an old African practice. The book I read mentioned particularly those of the Dinka tribe adhering to this although I am sure that collecting rain water is a custom unique to many people and cultures worldwide. As water is becoming more scarce and there are droughts affecting many (even developed) nations collecting rain water may become the typical way to gather water once again. What is your own cultures view on it? I notice that people are viewing this blog from around the world. Let’s start a conversation here about rain water. 

Lined oak wine barrel

Painted oil drums beats

Collecting rain water from corrugated tin roofs

Sensuous to smell

As customs trek miles of land

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Poem by Brenda L. McCartney

Full Moon

The invitation

The conscious decisions

Unconscious desires

In motion

Kinetic energy

That pulsating exchange

Narrates the sapid expressions

In far-away side streets

With symphonic composure

They played each others heart

Caressing each other thoughts

Redefining their pitch

Under a full yellow moon

Leaving behind their vintage script

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Poem by Brenda L. McCartney