“However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act on upon them?” ~ Buddha.

My parents must have moved house at least four times in the first 20 years of their marriage.  Since my father was a minister, each new church came with a new (old) house, and my mother would have been in charge of the packing up and organizing.  The move to Jamaica from England was of course the most dramatic.  But once more our worldly goods were packed up into an assortment of trunks, boxes and suitcases for the journey to the other side of the Atlantic, in the northern part of the Caribbean Sea.

My parents lived in Jamaica for 23 years, their longest home in one spot until their retirement.  When they retired, once more they had to pack up their entire home for the return journey.  My mother was not a hoarder as such, however she respected that she was the holder of memories.  After she died, we discovered that she held on to most of my father’s scribblings, his notes for his sermons.  They were always on the back of some recycled paper, some folded into a little booklet, some just on the back of oddly shaped papers.  My mother also respected any gifts they had been given over the years, whether by family or friends.  Her walls were covered with art and photographs; her shelves displayed an assortment of ceramics.  She had so many items that she regularly changed one set out for another.  She did not want to show preference to any, and she wanted to feel that a giver of any of the gifts could visit and see their item on display.

Having grown up with snail mail and landlines, she of course had a large, filled address book (well, more than one).  Every so many years when one had become battered and worn, she would carefully transcribe all contact information from the old to new, but would never throw out the old ‘just in case’.  These would be her source for her Christmas card list, and each year she would carefully sift through the pages to find the names of her many friends, old and new, and include a newsy letter, updating all on their latest adventures, and the whereabouts of their kids and grandkids. 

Upon her death we found that she had been going through her stashes of paperwork, trying to keep everything organized.  One long envelope contained several of her old address books (kept together with rubber bands).  On the outside of the envelope were the words: ‘Sorry.  I didn’t get a chance to go through these.  You don’t have to, just throw them away!’

From my mother I have inherited a love for holding on to things.  Unfortunately, I did not inherit her love of organization.  So, my stashes of papers would not be as easy for my children to sort through. I recently read of a book about ‘Swedish death cleaning’. This describes the act of decluttering your home so that you won’t leave your children the task of going through all of your junk and having to decide what (if anything) should be kept.  A friend of mine spent hours (on weekends and any spare time she had) going through her mother’s home when she died.  Her takeaway was to make sure she keeps her own clutter to a minimum to make sure her own kids will not be as tormented as she was.

This week we have watched in horror as a female named storm lingered in the Caribbean Sea, working herself up to a deadly Category 5 (or maybe higher) hurricane.  Slowly, tortuously, like a teenager getting ready for a date, she took her time, before finally moving on shore in Western Jamaica.  Those of us who live in South Florida well know the special kind of waiting and watching, as a hurricane moves towards us.  Some of use lived through Andrew, which was also a Category 5 when it hit land.  Andrew, like Melissa, had hurricane-force winds stretching out about 20-30 miles from the center, making it quite a compact storm, although the outer bands reached much further.  That, as well as the fact that Melissa turned north at the narrow, western end of the island of Jamaica, meant that the most intense damage is concentrated in roughly one third of the island.  But that damage is complete. 

Watching from afar, glued to YouTube videos and cable news updates, Jamaicans in the diaspora tracked the storm with nail-biting attention.  But for those who have had to endure the brunt of Melissa’s wrath, it was a very real and existential threat.  In the aftermath of the storm we (again, speaking for those who have been watching from afar) have been scouring the internet for clues as to how those that we have not yet heard from have fared.  With power off for three-quarters of the island (and slowly being restored) and cell phone service spotty, it will be hard for those affected to get news out. 

I remember, after Andrew, the nights.  Although we were far removed from the devastation of the hurricane force winds, we lost power for (I forget exactly) maybe three weeks.  My kids watched in amazement as their father gathered up supplies to build an ‘outdoor kitchen’ (which was all he had known in his childhood home).  Meals were cooked on an open fire.  What was harder to deal with in a South Florida summer, was the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes.  But I remember hearing reports of how it was in the affected, post-apocalyptic area at night.  With homes damaged, some homeowners kept watch, armed with a gun to protect their remaining possessions, on the lookout for looters.  With no streetlights the darkness was complete.  Curfews were in place, and the National Guard (appropriately, for such an emergency) was called in.  But still.

I can only imagine how scary the nights are in Western Jamaica, especially for families, for young children.  In the rural areas, although the concrete structures built after Hurricane Gilbert thirty-seven years ago (their last direct hit) have mostly stood up to those Cat 5 winds, the roofs have been shredded and relocated.  Windows and doors have been forcefully relocated.  In some cases, the houses are completely gone.  How do you sleep in the bones of a house, with no roof and no security?

Maslow, who described human needs in a hierarchy of importance, named our physiological needs as primary: air, food, shelter, sleep, clothing and reproduction.  For those who have had everything except air snatched away from them, this will be an anxiety-laden time of recovery.  In a matter of hours, everything that could have been deemed important, worthy of being saved, has been scoured out of their lives, leaving many of them with just the clothes they were wearing. 

As I sit here in my air-conditioned home, surrounded by all of my personal effects, I am pondering on the fragility of life and those things we think we need.  Many years ago, when a friend of mine got extremely upset about something being stolen from him, he received these words of wisdom from a simple, uneducated woman.  She told him ‘What no cost life, no cost nothing’ (what doesn’t cost you your life, does not cost you anything).  At a time when Melissa has shown us that, above all else, life and health is all that matters, we should all reflect on how fortunate we are. 

On this Friday morning, as I reflect on all of those things that don’t matter, I hope you are reading this in a safe place.  If you are able to contribute to the tremendous needs of those affected by Melissa, please investigate before you donate.  There are many scams and unofficial websites that will be trying to look legitimate.  If you can donate goods or your time, please do so.  In South Florida there are many pick-up points.  Jamaicans are a resilient people; they will rebuild better and stronger than before. They will find some way to make fun of Melissa and all that she has done to them, but they will need our help to do so.

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.