“In every community, there is work to be done. In every nation, there are wounds to heal. In every heart, there is the power to do it.” ~ Marianne Williamson.

I first learned about hurricanes when I was almost eight years old and traveling to Jamaica on the S.S. Ascania with my family and a shipload of passengers.  The ship was a little old, and my family swore it was held together with paint, for at each docking (and there were many), the Italian crew swarmed all over the boat, painting.  It was already going to be a long voyage, as it headed out from Southampton, England, and turned first towards Portugal, stopping (I believe, but my memory is shaky) in Lisbon and Madeira, then sailing through the rocky Bay of Biscay to head towards islands of the Lesser Antilles in the Caribbean.

            Somewhere around Trinidad we had to hang out for longer than expected, as Hurricane Flora was out there somewhere, with her sights set on the Northern Caribbean, Jamaica included.  What I only learned much later, was that she was one of the deadliest hurricanes in recorded history; over 7,000 people died.  She made landfall in Haiti, and affected Jamaica also, causing flooding and major damage to crops and livestock.  Once we settled up in the hills of Clarendon, we soon learned to chant the weather rhyme: ‘June too soon, July stand by, August come it must, September remember, October all over!’.  Which we should have known was wrong, since Flora was in Jamaica in October! And since then there have been devastating hurricanes as late as November!

It was some adjustment, going from the UK to Jamaica.  For a start, although the Christmas season brought cooler weather, especially up in those hills (Christmas breeze), there was definitely no chance of a white Christmas! And there were only two seasons, rainy and dry.  Although most fruit lovers will inform you that Mango season must be counted! But as the family settled in to the Chapelton community, to rural life, to the Jamaican culture, we learned to appreciate a different pace, a different rhythm, a different language, we also learned a different way of being in the world.

All of our adjustments were not without trauma.  My poor brother, halfway through his first visit to the local barber, leaped out of the chair, uncertain of where the haircut was headed.  At the time Tony C hairstyles were the rage (hair cut into a point at the front, way before Afros were cool!).  He had to be escorted back for the job to be completed. 

Thanks to my early years in Jamaica, I have been able to maintain my Jamaican way of life.  Going to prep, elementary (primary) and high school there gave me the foundation.  Marrying my Jamaican high school sweetheart who made sure I knew how to cook all of the Jamaican specials helped.  And then living in South Florida and being a part of my Jamaican high school alumni association for the past 25 years has kept me anchored to my Jamaican roots.

We have spent the past almost two weeks in Jamaica, preparing to give a send-off to a friend, a brother, an uncle, a joker, a character.  This was one of those funerals that makes you smile, for the tributes could not help but include stories of a well-lived life, of a man who never failed to bring a smile to the face of others.  There was a time when he was a little too fond of that famous Jamaican rum.  They say that one night he drove over the Flat Bridge, a structure originally built by enslaved people in 1724. It is very close to the level of the river that rushes beneath it, and many are the souls that have been lost in that water, as foolhardy people take unnecessary risks and plunge over the side.  So our brother one night, accompanied by his friends J. Wray and nephew, drove ‘over’ the bridge (not across).  The road, he said, moved! He swam to the banks and lived to tell the tale.

Over 300 of his friends and family members watched the service thanks to streaming technology, and to be fair, thanks to Covid, for who thought about livestreaming prior to our lockdown experiences?  There were easily 100 more in the church to celebrate his life.  And everywhere I looked I saw the concept of community played out.  For even those who may not have known him well, or maybe had not even met him, came because of his family, to support them as they said farewell to their oldest sibling.

One of the readings from Ecclesiastes reminded us of seasons, and this time it was not climatic seasons, but the seasons of life that we all experience: a time for joy and a time to weep, a time to sow and a time to reap. Perhaps I am hearing the lyrics to the song by The Byrds, but the lesson remains.  A friend of mine used to say: ‘sometimes coffee, sometimes tea’, a reminder that things change, nothing remains the same.  Which helps to provide hope as we pass through seasons of drought, or political chaos.

At the repast I was given another message about community.  This time it was by a man of the cloth, as they say, reminding me of Christ’s message of inclusion, of his outreach to the ill, the infirm, the rejected of society.  He is worried that we are not learning this lesson, this need for community.  Which is what many sociologists and psychologists have recently been expounding on.  The fact that our technological lives are bringing out pseudo-connections where we can link-up with many people without making that human connection that our souls require.

I recently heard the term ‘reality bubbles’, a pundit describing the way that we are increasingly choosing to isolate, obtaining information from one source only, that reinforces what we believe to be real.  Unfortunately for many that term may be wrong, for it seems to me that more and more people are choosing ‘unreality’ bubbles.  But if we do not move out of those bubbles and try to understand each other, how can we move forward?  How can we build a co-mmunity, a place where we can cooperate and collaborate?  This past week I have observed several conversations where the two participants did not share the same outlook, and yet they were able to reason and grant each other the right to their opinions.  I am trying to learn from this, as my tendence is to walk away once I realize your bubble is not my bubble!

This Friday morning, as I have been fortunate to visit my childhood home (a geographical place not a structure), I am appreciative of all the beauty, the contradictions, the vibes. I am grateful for the connections I have made, including one that led to a meeting with someone who was also a passenger on the S.S. Ascania over 60 years ago, that I have not seen since then!  Above all I am grateful for the sense of community that exists, that welcomes me and nourishes me.    I hope that, whatever season you find yourself in, you can also help to widen this community, so that we can enrich and sustain each other.

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.