‘Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Sinnerman where you gonna run to?
Where you gonna run to?
All on that day.’ ~ Nina Simone.

I was spoilt by growing up in a land of lyrical beauty.  When Columbus reported back to Queen Isabella of Spain, about the lands he had ‘discovered’, he is said to have described Jamaica by crumpling up a piece of parchment and throwing it on the table.  Mountainous.  To the Amerindians who were living on the island long before Columbus arrived, the island was known as Xaymaca (which apparently means Land of wood and water), so now we can picture a mountainous island with plenty of rivers, covered in trees.  I was privileged to live in the center of the island and could wake up any morning and walk out onto the verandah with a view of mountains and valleys, early morning mist nestling and caressing the folds and creases of the crumpled up land.

The high school I attended, in that town in the center of the island, is situated on a beautiful campus, with an almost 360 degree view of distant ranges.  It is perched on a hill itself, so going anywhere from point A to B on that campus, you will get your steps in, with a dash of ‘stair climber’.  It is possible to stand at the top of one of the multi-story buildings and gaze out at the view in the morning, and watch as the sky goes from completely clear, to having a few wispy clouds here and there, to eventually being full of towering cumulus clouds that you know promise afternoon convection rainfall, huge icy drops rapidly turning into a deluge.

In stark contrast to that environment I have spent almost all of my adult life living in South Florida, one of the areas that promises to be literally at ground zero when the sea level rises.  No rolling hills (despite road names including the word ‘hill’); no distant ranges, just flat terrain as far as the eye can see (not counting the high rise buildings and all of the development that threatens the infrastructure).  Like a former addict who uses tricks of association to create dopamine surges, I have learned to use visual illusions to sustain my addiction to mountains.  On certain rainy days, when dark banks of rain clouds fill the horizon, I can imagine that some of those layers are distant ranges.  And to be honest, if I could see that far, I am sure I could be seeing mountains. 

On road trips that take me out of the state of Florida, my excitement grows with the rise above sea level.  I even have the app on my phone that can tell me what the elevation is.  I stare out at the scenery and drink in every ridge and hill top as we head north, snapping countless photos from the moving car (from the passenger seat), and although the results may not even come close to capturing the live version, they serve as reminders, once I return to ‘the flats’.  I love mountains.

My father-in-law, who lived in a home nestled in the heart of the ‘Mocho Mountains’ of Clarendon, Jamaica, loved that I loved his homeland.  In one of my letters to him I described growing up in Chapelton surrounded by hills, hearing the breeze through the cane-piece outside of my window and not being sure if it was breeze or rainfall that was coming towards me.  He knew how much I loved the land from my descriptions.  The area he lived in was discovered to be rich in bauxite, the raw material from which aluminum is extracted (or as we would say in Jamaica a-lu-min-i-um, always guaranteed to stir laughter in any American listening).  The Bauxite company came through the area, scouting out the deposits and promising (threatening?) to buy everyone out so they could carve through the mountainside and mine for the minerals.  My father-in-law was strongly opposed, since the land they would be offering in exchange (along with cash) would not be to his liking.  He had no wish, so he said, to go and live in the ‘subanah’ (savanah), the hot, low plains of lower Clarendon.  He wanted to live out his days in the cools of the hillside, surrounded by the crops he planted himself, where the tropical hardwood trees grew, and all manner of birds could be heard calling.  He got his wish.

In addition to loving mountain views, I love trees and being out in nature.  The Japanese have a word for ‘forest bathing’, they call it shinrin-yoku, and it can be prescribed as an antidote for the pressures and stresses of everyday life.  Forest bathing has you immerse yourself in nature, has you walking through the woods paying attention to the sound of the wind through the branches; the calling of the birds up in the trees; the distant sound of rushing water as streams babble their way over stones and around corners to larger rivers and eventually, the ocean.  These areas remove you from the rush and bustle of city life and remind you to breathe, remind you that in the grand scheme of the universe, you and your troubles are but a grain of sand.

We have recently been reminded of how insignificant we are by the fury and fierce power of a hurricane, this time, by the one called Helene.  She roared up the Gulf of Mexico, rushed onshore bringing winds and rain and a huge storm surge, then barreled through north Florida, Georgia and destroyed parts of North Carolina and Tennessee.  She spread out through many states, devastating communities, destroying structures.  We look at the scenes of chaos and destruction with our mouths open.  I am reminded of Andrew, a powerful yet much smaller storm that wiped out areas of South Miami.  I can still remember how shocked I was to discover that photographs and videos cannot come close to giving you the true picture of the destruction of such forces of nature.  When you see it with your naked eye, only then can you truly take in the scope and true extent of the damage.  We can only imagine the harsh reality for those who dwell in the Appalachians, where rivers overflowed their banks, took over roadways, and carried people’s homes, cars and livelihood in their roiling waters.  To see areas laid waste, structures splintered and turned into rubble is truly shocking.

My long held dream of living up in the hills has been pierced by Helene’s cruelty.  In Florida we are aware that we are prone to hurricanes.  We do what we can to mitigate the effects of flooding.  But I had always thought that, apart from the beauty of the mountains, that if I had a place up in the hills I could be safe from the threat of global warming, the fear of sea level rise.  Foolish me. 

We cannot complain that we have not been warned.  With once in a hundred years event after event we are being shown the consequences of global warming on weather, on climate, on the future of the planet.  We can run to the rock, but the rock will not hide us, we can run to the sea, but the sea will be boiling! Nina Simone may have been talking about hiding from divine retribution but the lesson pertains to our very existence on this planet.  We must pay heed, and do all we can to stop this inevitable slide to extinction.

On this Friday morning, I give thanks for the ability to see and appreciate the beauty of this planet.  I send compassion and patience to those who have seen the devastation of Helene from the front lines, and hope that some degree of normalcy can be restored to their environment.  But I know it will take much more than thoughts and prayers to fix this, and to prepare for the next ‘once in a hundred years’ event which is just around the corner.

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.