Pandemic Pause

Billy and Buster, our latest fosters

I wake up around 6am to puppies nibbling my toes, lapping at my ankles, eager to be fed, but getting in my way so it takes longer to get to the kitchen. It's a joy to wake up to. Makes sequestering more bearable.

When this pandemic first hit, Peter and I really weren't affected by it. He and I work from home. Aside from not being able to go to restaurants, limiting our trips to the grocery store, pharmacy or Home Depot, not much had changed. We were thankful for that. 

Also, come to think of it, being on St. Croix is a huge blessing. We were kind of thrust here due to Peter's job. I debated whether or not to move down, preferring our home in New York State. But look at us now? A beautiful place to sequester, great weather, the beach minutes away, and the fresh food!

Locally grown banana varieties

Just four years ago, I became violently ill when I ate raw food. I couldn't even have a lemon in a glass of water or lettuce on my burger without becoming sick. But when I started coming here, I introduced some raw foods into my diet. Mint leaves in my mojito, a lime in my dark and stormy and pineapple juice in my Crucian Confusion. Then, I discovered fingerling bananas, and of course, mangoes. Whatever probiotic stomach ailment I had disappeared just in time for me to fully enjoy my life here.  

The only socializing Peter and I have done
since the Pandemic was a boat trip with friends
to Buck Island.

Today we had yet another a family "talk" about the Coronavirus, and I was overwhelmed by what we weren't saying, what I couldn't articulate, my real fear. Only after Macallan had left did it hit me. 

This is the problem I see:

• We're all afraid in various degrees of what this virus can do, will do, and how this will change our lives. Because, come on people, this is not anything we could have predicted, have experience in, nor is there a timeline that will keep us safe, keep us sane. 

• Our daughter studied environmental impacts. Young scientists in particular have seen that our planet has been crying out to us for years, for hundreds of years! The problem is not "new" but now, with this virus, it is worldwide. Our planet has been telling us something and we haven't been listening. Icebergs melting. Sealife dying. Ozone layer thinning. Drought. What more does Mother Earth have to do to get our attention? Oh yeah, disease. Better yet, death.

• This virus has us staying put, being alone, reflecting on our past, speculating about our future. But mostly, it's requiring us to be present. Where are you? What are you able to do safely? Who are you able to be with without danger of infection? 

St. Croix, unspoiled and secluded.

These questions: Who, What, Where, are really what we should be asking ourselves, asking of ourselves every day, with or without a deadly virus. 

Which leads me to these insights:

I believe wholeheartedly that the "universe"guides us. I believe each of us has a mission, a purpose, a reason for being. 

And with that belief, I think the world instituted this universal virus not to "punish" the "sinners" but to guide humans into reflection. Who am I? What am I doing here? Where am I and where am I going?    

My children, my husband and I have much to be thankful for; ; puppies, getting over food allergies, safe harboring, beautiful settings. Although we all do still worry about our futures; my family has our basic needs met. We're lucky. We're grateful. This time of pandemic gives us an opportunity to gain understanding about our lives. Four months so far. It may seem like a steep penalty but in reality, it's really the universe forcing us to press that pause button, asking us to stop, and giving us a chance to meditate, reflect, regenerate and recalibrate our lives.

Sure, you can resist, rail, retaliate but really why and to whom? We don't have a choice but to look at how the virus is spreading, try to adjust our lives so that it's less likely to infect us, and take each day not for what we want from it, but how we'll use it to live. To live on. 

The Taste of Mangoes

"Let's go for a drive." he said...Off we went. 

In the rainforest, we passed maybe three others.  

Down an overgrown road we'd never been, we pulled over several times and got out. We inspected plants, took in the scenery, inhaled the fragrance of the moist soil, the trees in bloom and those mangoes ripening on the stem.

We were collecting food for the four tortoises we have. They are picky eaters, liking only red bell peppers, seemingly only red hibiscus but enjoying various greens, ripe bananas, papayas, avocados and of course, mangoes. 

At one stop, as we stood in the sunshine under a tree with plum-sized fruit, we picked a few off the ground. They were warm from the sun, soft but firm, mostly unbruised because they had landed conveniently on the bedding of

dried leaves. 

Peter handed me one plump golden kidney-shaped fruit. He had one for himself and started to peel it with his teeth. I watched him for a minute. So juicy, he had to keep licking his lips. He finished it in moments. But in fairness, it was so small, gone in only three bites. 

I held the one he'd given me. It was so warm in my hand and smaller than my palm. Because it was ready to burst, I cupped it gently. I liked the feel of it's smooth skin. I admired it's color, a deep golden yellow. The leathery skin was nearly unblemished. It was almost too pretty to eat, but eventually, I did. 

I brought it to my lips. My teeth punctured the taut outer-layer. The juices trickled into my mouth, made my lips sticky, it was warm, flavorful, and oh so sweet. I usually only eat mangoes after they've been chilled. And never have I bitten into one before peeling it. Here, outside, under the very tree that nourished it, I had no utensils except my own fingers and my teeth. I peeled back the skin, opening it up, exposing the meat. For a small mango, there was a lot to eat. And the flavor, like no mango I'd had before. 

I am Filipino by origin. I was born in the Philippines, my parents were both born there too, as were their parents. Mangoes are one of the fruits that is quintessentially Filipino to me. My mom will speak of papaya; I don't like their texture or taste. My dad loved coconuts; the young coconut, the dried coconut, the water, the milk, the slimy meat, the fleshy chunks, still moist but crunchy. But for me, I love the mango. 

When we emigrated from the Philippines to the USA in the late 60's, our parents would only speak and insisted we only respond in English. We were going to school soon and they needed us to be fluent. 

Their pride in being American immigrants was so strong, they were willing to forsake their customs, their language, their way of life to assimilate fully. And that's what we did, to our grandfather's horror. He thought Americans were spoiled, uncultured, believed children disrespected their parents. "They will grow up wild!" he told my parents. My Lolo even refused to bring us to America, as promised. He told our parents to go ahead and settle our home then he would bring us a few weeks later. Those weeks extended to months, and finally to nearly a year before my mother threatened to board a plane to retrieve us. 

That year apart caused my older brother (4 years old at the time), my little sister (under one) and me (3 years old), great harm. Our Lolo's actions defined us. We felt abandoned by our parents, traumatized, we grew insecure, fearful, unloved and unloveable. 

And to make things worse, when we were reunited with our parents, they insisted we renounce our life in the Philippines and become Americanized. 

For most of my life, I have rejected my Filipino background. And as a result, I never truly belonged anywhere. But here, on St. Croix, that's beginning to change for me. 

There are so many different cultures on STX and very few identify purely as one and not the other. You can be hispanic, black, rasta, a combination of any and all three. 

The island residents are Crucian, as long as you were born here; Puerto Rican, Black, Cuban, Trinidadian...no matter. There are mainlanders who came for the beaches, who retired to paradise, who are snowbirds, own vacation properties, work here at the refinery, most recently relocated either permanently or temporarily for disaster relief. 

That's us. When Peter first got here January 2017 after IrMaria, the two category 5 Hurricanes that hit in September, he had no idea what the living conditions would be, so I stayed in New York. How long would we be apart, we had no idea? And now, 2-1/2 years later, we're both here. 

With COVID 19, we consider ourselves lucky. On St. Croix there are only a few cases, we have beautiful weather, and outdoor recreation where we can social distance. It's ideal, really. 

And then there are the mangoes. Very few grew after the hurricanes, but now! Swinging from trees that line the main highway; scattered in yards; in the rainforest; along deserted roads. Fruit for tortoises, for residents, free for the taking. The sight of them; red, green, yellow; larger than your hand to those so small several can fit in your palm. They come from around the world. Some are easily recognized, their species identifiable, others...who knows...and who cares? 

Much like the mangoes, life here is sweet, delicious, delightful and diverse...I didn't realize how much my filipino background meant to me until I held that perfectly ripe mango cushioned by the dried leaves from the tree where it grew. 

Something about the forethought of nature taking a seed, protecting it in the warm soil, keeping it moist with the rains, the sun giving it life, energy, encouraging it to grow and grow. Taller and taller, the tree's leaves gaining strength, the flowers spreading, the fruit forming, the water, earth, and sun nursing each mango until it is plump, juicy, flavorful, sweet, growing and glowing from within. 

And one day. This Saturday. Just as we arrived. A gentle breeze blew the fruit on the long wispy stem, and it fell. Cushioned by the fallen leaves, it was not hurt, did not bruise, resting only a moment before Peter picked it up and handed it to me. 

Imagine, we drove up to the tree, ripe with fruit. We took in the beauty of the long green leaves, the bright yellow fruit, the majesty of the tree trunk that stretched 20 or more feet above us. And as we got out to look at the surrounds, several fruit fell, warm, filled with sweet juice, ready to be eaten. Peter casually picked two up. He held them in his hands. He offered one to me and began to eat the other. 

I have to wonder what I'm doing here, how I got here and why. 

A year ago, I would not have known that I would be living on an island, picking ripe mangoes from the ground, and calling this place home...if not for the taste of mangoes...how lost I would still be.