Good Grief Guru

Posts Tagged ‘Barbados’

My cousin Sarah joined my family’s trip to Barbados this past January.  She was a welcomed addition, and quickly became the best friend, play mate, and most sought after individual in the house, by my daughter.

Some of the first words out of my daughter’s mouth every morning were, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s sleeping honey.  Let the poor girl sleep.”

Throughout the day, when Alexis wanted to play hide and seek, watch a movie, or go to the beach, she would ask, “Sarah, do you want to come with me?  Yah?  Do you want to come?”

Unpretentious, Sarah fit in anywhere.  She was my kid’s best friend, and also someone who was capable of having a well thought out conversation.  She took equal interest in playing dominoes with the ladies two generations above ours, as she did to building sandcastles with my toddler, or hanging out on the verandah with me.  She was able to be social, or find herself just as happy (perhaps a little more so) delving into a good book.

Sarah was perhaps best known to me for being a Narnianist, and a clay figurine sculptor.  Now, I know her as a Narnianist, a sculptist, a reader, a well moderated thinker, a theatrical artist, an inventor of umbrella tents, a mutual eater of mangoes, and her admitted indecisiveness but ability to go with the flow, made her all the more endearing to me.  Above all, Sarah is someone who engaged in opportunities to connect with others on varying levels, to be present, and participate in the moment that will never come again.

My daughter Alexis, and I, were so happy to have had a two week holiday with cousin Sarah, in Barbados.  I predict an increased number of trips to her neck of the woods over the up-coming year.

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The place: Barbados. The destination: Earthworks Pottery. The timeline: mid-vacation.

My late-husband’s ashes rested in my black leather bag.  Every morning I walked on the beach, and in the height of the afternoon sun I swam in the sea.  I barely thought about my husband’s remains.

I have a lot of family who live in Barbados.  On my last trip to this beautiful island, my husband was with me.  We had stayed in the beach house next door to where I am staying now.  Strangely, there are few reminders, few intervals of our trip to paradise that connected with my return trip at present.  Although we stayed right next door, no room in this new beach house holds memories of my previous trip with him.  For that reason, there are no triggers.  No reason for me to dwell on his absence.  Everything on this trip is new.

Then, my mother suggests we visit Earthworks pottery.  Earthworks is a place my husband and I had visited together.  Our visit had meant something significant for me because it represented an outlet we enjoyed together.  We took mutual pleasure in the art of Earthworks pottery.

On my previous trip, Neil had picked out a delicate hand-made clay bowl that had been decorated as uniquely as Neil was unique.  It was one of a kind, rare, like him, and he was proud to participate in my family’s passion for the unparalleled local art.

Until this moment, I had no desire to scatter Neil’s ashes anywhere, but as soon as I pictured the Earthworks studio up high on the hills of Saint Thomas, Barbados, I know this is where I want part of him to be.

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It is now the next day.  I lift the mason jar containing my husband’s ashes, out from my black leather bag.  I move the jar to my every-day bag and run out to the car where the others are waiting.  I, like the rest of my family, love visiting the Earthworks studio, but no one knows what else I have in mind; what is truly propelling me off the sandy beach, and into the hills of Saint Thomas.

I have yet to learn how to drive in Barbados, an island of narrow, unmarked roads, where the vehicles drive on the opposite side of the road than how I am used to driving in Canada.  My mother navigates us past coloured chattel houses and sugarcane fields, until we reach the hills and I spot the studio on high.

While the others are distracted inside, I lead my daughter by the hand, beneath the shade of tropical trees.  I have no idea how to explain to her what we are doing, so I tell her we’re going to do a very special secret, which keeps her voice hushed.  We kneel below the green canopy on a place where no one walks, and I am at peace laying his ashes here.

I open the mason jar and remove the baggie that holds the grey flecks of dust.  I open the bag and release half the ashes to the ground below.  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” is the famous quote from The Book of Common Prayer, that comes to mind.  This moment is perfection.  I would not change a single thing.  I know Neil is not in his ashes, but I realize that this process is still a step in releasing him, honouring him, and embracing freedom through my personal expression of how I will love him, and celebrate his life through his death.

As soon as I start I want to go on.  I feel a need to scatter more, but not here.  There is a spot on a different part of the island, Barclay Park, a beach in Cattlewash on the East Coast of Barbados.  My family and I had stayed in the cottages above the beach many times.  After my engagement to Neil he flew to England, and I to Barbados where I stayed at a blue and white cottage called Bit by Bit.  We talked on the phone every day, and I always imagined I would show him this place.  That opportunity was gone, but I can at least scatter him here, and that is meaningful to me.

Onward bound to Cattlewash we drive.  We stop at a side-road convenience store to buy snacks and drinks so the others can have a picnic, and scout for shells on the beach, while I go off like the dog Marley, from the movie Marley and Me, to confront the subject of death.

I look to my left and see my daughter crouched down on the sand picking sea shells with her cousin.  My mother walks beyond them towards Chalky Mount.  I remember that Neil and I had taken a tour of the island two years earlier, and stood on the side of the road at Cherry Tree Hill.  High above Barclay Park we overlooked a spectacular view of Cattlewash, which I stood at the bottom of now.  How I thought then I would one day show him the view from the ground up.

The raging white caps of the Atlantic Ocean remind me of the white unicorns from the 1982 cartoon film, The Last Unicorn.  I could picture the army of unicorns creating the white foam upon the fierce waves at the ending of the movie.

I look to my right, and see Bit by Bit, and Round Rock.  Well past the others, I pick up a hand full of sand and mix it into the bag of ashes, as though I am enabling my husband’s feet to touch the sand of Barclay Park.  The tide is high and the unicorns lunge towards my ankles, drenching the bottom of my long red dress.  I scatter half of the ash/sand mix at the base of Round Rock, an iconic figure of my time at Cattlewash.  I wish I could show Neil the bench perched on top of Round Rock by Rastas, as though a fantasy bus is going to pull up at any moment to whisk imaginary passengers away.

As I turn back towards Chalky Mount, I release the rest of Neil’s ashes from the bag onto the sand, and watch as they are washed into the Atlantic by the waves.

Now that I have begun the process of scattering I am absolutely confident that cremation was the best decision I could have made for myself.  Cremation allows me to come to terms with the death of my husband, and the releasing of him, in my own time, in my own unique way.  I find tremendous freedom in the expression of scattering, and the creativity I can imbue into the process.  Then I think, what if I not only release Neil’s ashes in meaningful places?  What if I release them during significant moments in time?  I had heard enough stories from widowed parents and orphans alike, telling me how the children can feel the void of their missing parent, especially during milestone events such as a graduation, or a wedding.  I imagine how lovely it could be to honour Neil, and his place as the father of my daughter, by including this ritual during poignant moments in time.  My daughter is almost three years old, and too young to understand what is happening, but the thought of scattering through a timeline as opposed to a geographical map, reassures me that perhaps she might find some comfort in the years to come knowing that, if there is a time when she would wish for nothing more than to have her daddy present, we still have access to a small, but meaningful way, to include him.

I join the others on the beach where we continue to pick sea shells while entertained by ghost crabs playing peek-a-boo out of their burrowed holes.  I sit next to my daughter drawing pictures in the sand, and reminisce in an incredible moment just past, where everything that has just happened feels entirely good.

If you have an idea, or a scattering story, please leave a comment.  I’d love to hear any suggestions, ideas, or comments in general.

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Recorded on my last day in Barbados.  Happy watching everyone.  Click here to view.

I’m slightly overjoyed with my floppy brown hat at the moment.  I have trouble sleeping sometimes…okay, a lot of the time.  At home I sleep in a very dark room.  Any light keeps me up.  Some sounds, like the sound of the dishwasher, hums me to sleep, but other sounds, like noises I don’t recognize, noises I want to investigate, or turn off, keep me alert.

The first night in Barbados I heard many sounds.  Crickets, whistle frogs, the sound of the sea.  All natural sounds that would normally pacify me to bed.  Then, I heard a new sound.  An industrial noise like the sound of a generator.  The only thing I could fathom was that someone must be running a generator to work on one of the boats at sea.  It wasn’t until the next groggy morning, my mother said, “It must be coming from a kite.”

“There is no way that sound is coming from a kite, Mom” I argued.  I should have listened to the local.  She walked outside and spotted the kite anchored to a neighbouring house, flying over head, humming powerfully down at me.  I hum-bugged back, “You have got to be kidding me.”

I have now learned there is a special way the Islanders make kites, which produces a noise-maker called a “mad bull.”  After a little research on-line I found I wasn’t the only one desperate for a pair of scissors to cut the mad bull down.

Between the indy race car noise flying over head, the bad karaoke hollering out towards another weekend night, and the spot lights around the beach house that can not be turned off, potential for sleep is not on my side.

But, finally, after two weeks of bull, I’m either going mad myself, or finally growing accustomed to the sound.  Now, I just have to find a solution to the intruding lights.  Then, I remembered my hat.  My thick, dark, floppy brown hat.  I wore it to bed last night, its flaps covering my eyes.  Lights out!  For the first time in weeks I slept like a baby.

As it nears bedtime again, I am beyond happy at the thought of my brown floppy hat, and the dreamy hope that another sound, dark, sleep awaits me.

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The sound of the waves call out from the sea like an amplified heart beat.

I lay on an orange, striped veranda couch and listen.  I feel as though I am resting one ear on a man’s chest, drifting into slumber as the sound of his heartbeat lulls me to sleep.

It seems I was air lifted out of one reality, away from any triggers associated with my husband’s death.  Five hours later I am gently ushered into paradise.  The heat and the shushing of the salty, turquoise waves cause my eyes to grow heavy.  My writing reflects the transition in my thought process, as the ratio between grief articles and happy thought posts, have begun to lean heavily on the lighter side of life.

The sun lifts my spirits and the breeze carries my cares away across the surface of the sea.  It is the first time in months my mind has quieted its thoughts.  I can hold conversations without the compulsion to empty information from my mind in order to make room for more.

Responsibility lags behind me.  Even the threat of insomnia is not so daunting knowing, while I’m away, a house full of women are parenting with me.  Even if I wake up at 6am after falling asleep at only 3, I will awake to the sun, sand, and surf, and a day of little thought or worry.

All bills, chores, and reminders have been left behind at home.

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I was out for a morning walk in the sun, hand in hand with my daughter, when up on a wall we spotted a monkey, then two, then three, then four!  Alexis and I knelt down, being very quiet so we didn’t scare them away.  Turns out, they weren’t scared of us at all.  One hopped off the wall and walked right past us, eating an orange palm nut while it strolled.

Each one passed within a foot of where we knelt.  They sauntered down our driveway, to a neighbouring yard, where we got to enjoy a long show while they feasted on a tropical brunch.

Monkeys are SO cute. To watch a video of some monkey business, click here.

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High up on the hill tops of St. Thomas parish, sits Earthworks pottery house, overlooking a spectacular view of the landscape of Barbados.  Parked on a steep hill I look up at an artist’s paradise.

The outdoor staircase, decorated with broken glazed clay pieces, is only the first step towards where the wonder begins.

On every Barbados visit, which is about once every two years, Earthworks is a must-visit-again-and-again-and again, destination.  If one were to visit my home in Canada, my mother’s home, and my sister’s home, they can expect to find Earthworks pottery on our walls, in our cupboards, or both.

Adding to my collection of pottery is only part the reason why I visit on every trip.  In truth, collection is a secondary reason as to why I go.  My desire to support the craft, and this particular business venture, are high up on my list, but there is a more compelling reason I am drawn to visit time and time again.

It is the place itself that inspires me.  It is what they have done with all the broken pottery pieces that fills me with wonder, and hope.

I walk up the staircase that leads to the open doors of the Earthworks pottery studio.

I take Alexis on a tour, a free tour where we are encouraged to walk ourselves through.  Staff, humble, but proud of what they do, fill us in on the details of their craft as we journey along our self-guided tour.

First, the clay is molded.

Next, it is decorated with coloured glaze.

Finally, it is put into kilns to be fired.  The kilns at Earthworks are the largest I have ever seen!

Once fired, the brilliant colours appear on the pottery, beneath a gloss-like surface.

Following our tour, the founder’s son, David, gives Alexis red clay to shape with her own hands.

“Is it Play-doh?” she asked, excited.

“It’s clay-doh!” I exclaimed.  “Play away.”

I LOVE the expression of pottery.  A prominent analogy used in the Bible is one of God being the Potter, and we being the clay.  But what happens if the original piece of pottery is broken?

Like broken shards of coloured glass re-worked into a stained-glass window, it mesmerizes me what an artist can do with broken pieces of anything.  At Earthworks, their artists have decorated the outdoor staircase, the parking lot wall, and the entire Earthworks building with broken, or forgotten, pieces of fired-clay.

I find tremendous hope in the thought that the shattered, and even neglected pieces of my life have the potential to be reinvented, and that they could be as beautiful, inspiring, and spectacular as this.

Each of the damaged pieces of pottery were, at some point, on their way to becoming something else.  Something practical.  When formed, their intended purpose was completely different then ending up on the Earthworks’ wall.  Once broken, their initial purpose destroyed, someone could have easily thrown them away.  But in hands that saw potential, these broken pieces are now, in my opinion, the glory of Earthworks, Barbados.  They are no longer practical.  They are inspirational.

I stare at the decorated wall and I hope, I pray, that the shattered pieces of my life, when placed in the hands of THE Master Artist, will be transformed like this wall; that my potential may be revealed, and out of my brokenness, may inspired beauty be formed.

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Watch the VIDEO recording of Happy Thought #14 by Shawna & Alexis, recorded from Barbados

My day started out like this.  My daughter crawled in bed with me, and with a sweet little smile she quietly whispered, “You are so special.”

Oh, that every day could begin like this.

Then she said, “I am so happy.”  I asked her, “What makes you so happy?”, and she answered, “Sarah”, her twenty-something cousin who has been showering her with love and attention throughout our vacation in Barbados.

As we emerge from the terrible twos, I see a glimmer of hope.  My nearly-three-year-old has began to make the connection between cause and effect, the result of which is slightly more cooperation.  She also participates in random acts of kindness.  Sometimes she spontaneously quips, “I love you, Mom!”, or the other night at dinner, she turned to her Grandma and said with a big grin, “You’re awesome.”

Edification from the mouth of babes.  As Martha Stewart says, “It’s a good thing.”

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My cousin is on the boogie board, trying to ride the surf.  My daughter is digging sand wells with a plastic, blue and yellow shovel.  My mother walks down the beach towards us, past the abandoned fishing boat.  She dares my daughter to chase the white caps breaking on the shore.  They slap and roar as they pummel the wet sand.  My daughter squeals and lifts her feet in joyous terror.  My grandmother stands with me on the sand and talks.  Her sister wades into the ocean and floats on her back, bobbing with the swell of the tide.

My feet sink under the wet sand, between the shore and the surf.  They are fully buried.  My daughter pours water over them to make them “grow” out of the sand like a flower.  “Look.  There they are” I encourage her.  “You made my feet grow out of the sand.”

I don’t need to think about how I will engage this moment.   I am a participator of it, but lately I have been more of an observer of life.  The gift of this moment causes me to consider the value of both.

With family roots in Barbados, visiting this Caribbean island has always been like coming home.

We drive to a beach house from the airport, and I feel that Barbados is somehow more beautiful than it has ever been.  Maybe it was the bright sunshine compared to the grey weather I had flown in from.  Perhaps it was the expression of culture that sang out from every brightly painted house.  Maybe it was my feeling of gratitude after we all survived a turbulent plane ride, or in general for surviving the past year and finding myself in this wonderful, stress-free moment.  This perfect moment, where everything that is happening, and all the characters in it, made it complete.

This moment on the ocean, this time I have with family, is a gift.  Then I think, I could be living this same moment in a different scene; a scene back home where I would be wrapped up in routine, or busyness, and might not notice how rare and precious this moment still is.  In the routine of every day life I often forget how inestimable each moment is, and what an opportunity it is to be present, spend time with the ones I love, and participate in life instead of just observing it.

It’s strange how sometimes it takes a moment like this, a vacation, a new friend, or a life changing event like a birth or a death, to interrupt my ordinary, and remind me it’s extraordinary.

No two days will ever be the same.  No moment in time will ever come again.  Each day is a gift that will never be offered again.

As the American Cartoonist, Bil Keane, said, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift of God, which is why we call it the present.”

I wonder what I will unwrap tomorrow…

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