A Boat Called Feelings

A Grenadian woman walking to work keeps herself together. She seems fully aware of her surroundings, but not distracted by them. Each foot steps with intention; this is not meditative but necessary on the road-edge terrain. She is not walking loosely like I am with my arms swinging and my long strides in my airy skirt and sneakers. This woman does not waste movements; she is keeping everything together.

Her work requires a professional look. Her blouse buttoned up and her skirt snugging her hips. It is a miracle to me, her steadiness in those fine shoes. This woman is not in a rush, but she moves right along. She holds her space on that road. The buses honk but move out of her way.

I am thinking of her on my walk to St. George’s in the intermittent light rain and morning coolness. I have cut through the Eric Gairy Botanical Gardens. Perched in a large pavilion, I watch pedestrians climb the hill to the Ministerial buildings—the Ministry of Education, Immigration Office, Cabinet. When the rain crescendos to a brief downpour, the Grenadians pop up their umbrellas without breaking stride.

The end of January is nearly the dry season, and I wonder if the rains will stop entirely for a few months. I have been loving the way you can hear them building. They cut the heat. They rinse the air. All of the colors seem brighter when the sky clears.

This island is fully saturated in color. If color were audible, it would be full volume with a complex range of notes and chords. A visual concert. Back home at this time of year, the world is gray and brown and white. I crave color, so in winter I dabble with paints or knit with bright yarns. Here, I am content with words on a page to balance the world outside. Here, the world outside is a feast.

As this rain tapers, I scrutinize the large tree near the pavilion. My first impression is pine tree, but I realize its long needles are segmented, reminding me of plants called horsetail (Equisetum). Its little cones are actually knobby balls. At its base, the trunk looks like the tendons in a person’s neck, straining. When I am in a new place, everything is a wonder or a mystery, or both.

I look up the tree and learn that it is not from here. It’s an Australian pine (Casuarina Equisetifolia—I see how it got its species name), which is not really a pine tree nor is it from here. In some places, especially the southern U.S., the Australian pine is considered a weed. It was introduced far beyond its native range because it can stabilize soil, fixes nitrogen, and makes good lumber. This not-pine tree has its own story.

When I am in a new place, my impressions are just the surface. My observations catalog so much of what I see and so little of what is actually there. As a human being, all of my judgements are colored by the things I already assume to be true.

Although I am watching closely, I do not know the Grenadian woman on her way to work. Or if she is actually going to work. Or what all she carries or how she keeps it together enough to walk up the road. She is a wonder and a mystery, just like everyone.