Refiner’s Fire

My friends have been telling me that this whole process of working in a situation which intensifies more than internal surge protectors can contain, is a “character building exercise.”

My response has consistently been “I don’t need flies pitching on me to build character.”

I felt I had already grown beyond this situation, the chaos in this country, overwhelmingly outdated living conditions (including no electricity and running water for 6 weeks), cover-ups beyond anything I have seen in public relations, blah blah blah…

But I hadn’t.

The beauty of this life is that as long as we have breath, we can review, reflect, introspect, and utilise all the verbs necessary to find deeper meaning in the midst of any circumstance.

(Enter the character building bit.)

Apparently that is what they meant- finding deeper meaning to my own existence because my purpose is greater than my circumstance.

But I am human.

I get distracted by flies feasting on me and I get frustrated when things don’t work the way they should, nor even with the contingencies that my-event-planning-self meticulously budget for.

This, my new reality, is the “Small Islant Mentality” personified. It means that absolutely nothing goes according to plan, not because of Murphy’s Law, but because of a decidedly myopic framework that prevents inhabitants from “seeing the big picture.”

How can you convince someone to think beyond parochial borders when their idea of success is driving a gas guzzling luxury vehicle on a 7 mile long island, where there is a one-handed mechanic who is always drunk, no wheel alignment machinery, one nameless grade of fuel, and enough sea air to guarantee rust in a few years? You can’t.

The problem is that for now, you have to live with them, and their myopia, and no matter how exposed and unbridled your perspectives are, unless you are going to self-fund a world tour for every jack man and child, they will remain so. So what so you do?

You shift your paradigm.

One of the most revealing things I read from Imelda’s extensive library is that when you have reached a higher plane in your own development, you must be understanding of those who have not yet risen to that level of consciousness.

What is the point of the housewife marrying the man who is a career spendthrift and spending the rest of her life watching him whittle their joint savings away on every gadget meaningless known to mankind? She too has to shift her paradigm- get another provider who understands that KEEPING money is as important as making it, or get a job herself and take over the finances.

I must shift my paradigm.

I must find my purpose here, which is not to be frustrated, nor to lower my standards, but to critically adjust the way I go about things and my own expectations.

If the donkey doesn’t want water, don’t force him to drink.

He clearly doesn’t know that he is thirsty. He doesn’t understand thirst because he has never been quenched.

It’s hard. No it is damn hard. How do you not do what you feel is exactly what you need to do and be happy about that?

It is actually a little simpler than I thought.

Did you bring the donkey to the water? ‘Yes’
Did you explain clearly, without insulting his ignorance the benefits or drinking water and the repercussions for not so. “Yes”
Then that is your job.

It is his life. He makes his own decisions and works out his own salvation.

Repeated attempts to convince him to drink will only frustrate you to the point where you forget about the bit of “not insulting his ignorance” and then you insult his ignorance and you reach deadlock. You die of a brain haemorrhage and he dies of thirst.

Just as he has to work out his own salvation, so do you.

So save your sanity. Guard the joy and peace and love, and hope that God has blessed you with.

In fact, better yet, build on your own character.

I must write- for Malcolm

I don’t know where to begin, nor how to end.

I know only that I must write.

I must write because the same spirit than gave your body life gives mine, and it never rests without artistic release.

Malcolm McCormack, 28 year old black Jamaican male artistic creative inspired troubled by the things in life that affect us so significantly like injustice hatred envy greed malice pride politics development scarce benefits spoils always trying to find deeper meaning to your existence yet always grateful still for the small mercies the ocean the blue sky the lush green of Jamaican countryside hopeful kind young promising reflective of times good and innocent Son Brother Friend Nephew Cousin Schoolmate Neighbour Bredren man in the street smiling at nothing but everything.

My heart is heavy. My eyelids, light.

I remember playing with you in Jamaica. A distant childhood memory in which I had to climb stairs with my daddy to see you and Fran.

Now you have climbed stairs with the real big Daddy, to be with Our Father which art in heaven.

In the moments before you began your spiritual ascent, you made music. You found your own artistic release. You played your violin, giving praise like David to the God of music, the God of man, the Most High.

As you walked your final walk on the streets of this life, you were not alone. You were with friends. The same ones with whom you had just shared your music. And in those moments, as you walked, the music was still in your ears, in your heart. Your spirit was free. And so it went.

As you climbed the staircase to heaven, again you were not alone. This time, the Greatest Friend of All, the One who promised never to leave nor forsake you was with you.

Now, as your spirit lingers with us, we feel you as we gaze into the eyes of those who are gathered with us to not only mourn your passing, but celebrate the blessing of your life.

Every click of a camera shutter is a reminder of your passion for photography. Every smell of a new flower bud, a celebration of your wonder of nature, and now, even the most mundane walks, become a silent, spiritual event as we pay homage to you.

Thank you, my dear cousin, for choosing us as your family, and for giving us life even in your own death. For you remind us to live as you did, embracing the good moments and the bad and to find joys and profundity in the most simple things.

May perpetual light shine on you.

As we say in Jamaica, the land of your birth…Walk good bredren

Craziness Redefined

There is a lone fly in the room and it is on my desk.

I swear that flies, like mosquitoes, sense that I have the greatest disgust for them, and so, by default, they take the role of antagoniser and single me out as the protagonist, even when there are others in a room.

I know I bathe. I know I wash properly, I wear clean clothes. I brush my teeth. I wash my hair even more than I should. So why me?

Why me?

What great sin have I commited to be banished to insect hell?

Now there are two flies. Misery loves company.

And there are three. A crowd.

I notice that more are perched on other people’s desks, but I seem to be the only one visibly disgusted with the concept of sharing my space with flies.

Maybe it is indeed a cultural barrier.

Where I come from, flies follow mangoes, fish and filth. If there is none of the former two, then you face sheer condemnation.

But here, flies are the mainstay of daily living. It appears to be OK to walk with a buzzing posse. Why else would stray animals be continued to roam streets and yards and conduct their most basic deeds freely? Why else would such evidence not be removed immediately from walkways of offices? Why else would people continually step in it, taking the smell of a pig sty into banks, utility companies and even the supermarket?

Yes- the supermarket, but I won’t even go there.

I must admit that when I first came here, I thought that some crazy person was following me around. The kind of crazy that makes one unconscious that eliminating bodily waste is something best done in private, and washed away immediately after. The kind of crazy that makes the one so affected involuntarily eliminate and voluntarily do it on onself. It was only when I could not find that consistent face, that I realised it must be something else. When I started walking the streets, I saw why.

I guess I come from a place of normal people. Because crazy people drive straight through potholes, so driving in Jamaica is usually characterized with a lot of zig-zagging. Here, I must seem crazy because I zig zag when I walk and drive. Not to avoid potholes, but filth.

Try as I may though, there is something associated with such widescale messiness, that I just cannot seem to shirk- the flies.