The sky is heavily pregnant with dark clouds. The air presses against my skin, swollen with humidity. The rain will soon pour, the accompanying thunder all but confirms it. One of my amputated fingers tingles.
It’s rainy season here in Trinidad, the daily pitter-patter on the ceiling of my studio crescendos into white noise, making me feel more contemplative than usual. It’s a time of cocoa tea and enchantment as I look out at the white rain and hummingbirds on my porch, ever-thankful to be alive.
After a season of plenty travel, my feet have been rooting down and are firmly planted for the next month or so. Since returning from the Cayman Islands, my creative energy has organically, necessarily, flowed into homemaking. I reorganised the kitchen to suit my liking and I’m tackling other parts of the house piece by piece. I’m currently obsessed with sheets and curtains, affordable cleaning supplies and organizational charts—I can barely recognize myself. All my friends are very aware that I “have a chart” (multiple charts, actually) and I appreciate how supportive they’ve been while I toe the line of veering into control-freak territory.
I’ve eased into doing my day job part-time in order to care for my partner’s elderly parents while he goes on a much needed trip off-island. Life is just…life-ing and I’m holding on with as much grace and self-compassion as I can muster. I see all of this as a fascinating exploration of the depths of love. Love as action. It’s circular, much like healing. Or, perhaps they are one and the same.
This new devotion to home and my chosen family, coupled with the time-bending that comes with being a full time caregiver, has given me space to continue the ongoing unpacking that I’m doing regarding my family of origin and my culture’s spiritual beliefs.
Earlier this year, I hiked the Camino de Santiago in pursuit of closure, and while I found it in one huge aspect, I’m still trying to find meaning or, perhaps, make meaning regarding why my fingers were amputated. I mean, I know why: silly random accident. Gross medical negligence with a dollop of medical malpractice. Blah, blah, blah, yes. I’ve made my peace with that part. But why did it happen?
One thing about medical crisis, even after everything is said and done and my body has healed, is that it has brought me to my knees and made me confront what I really believe.
There’s no hiding from this. And, my, do I love to hide*.
