I have always felt both at peace and uncomfortable in too much nature. All that open space is meant to give one a break from the tension and closeness of city-dwelling but can often be just as overwhelming. Once, in Ibiza with a past love, on a gorgeous boat, floating in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, I realized that I could not see land at all on any side. The water was so clear I could see all the way to the sea floor and watched schools of fish layer over one another in my view down. I freaked. Literally. I had to get out of the water, slow down the heart rate, regroup. I just felt so alone suddenly. Not just alone by myself but "we come into the world alone and we die alone" alone. The existential crisis was mind blowing and I nearly threw up. OK, I did throw up.
Now I cannot believe that it is possible that I am having a midlife crisis of sorts. I am a young 41. But I often feel like I am out there in the Mediterranean not seeing any sides as I live my day to day these days. Nothing to grab on to. What the heck am I doing here? Here AND here. Part of why being in Barbados is all wrong for me is that I still feel like there is something else for me to do in the world, something to contribute and I for damned sure am not going to be doing it here. I would rather be the tiniest fish in the hugest pond, trying my best to get to the top of the food chain than a medium sized fish in a teeny tiny fish bowl where one just can't breathe. I do find myself holding my breathe sometimes as I anticipate the monkey in the tree, the lizard on the other side of the opening window shutter, the sudden stop of traffic to allow the front car driver's fantasy woman to cross the street bringing everything to a halt. It feels like at every turn there could be something and the somethings are not good.
The other day I ran out to open the front gate for the pest control service and nearly fell into passionate embrace with four monkeys swinging from the mango tree eating unripe fruit. I didn't want to act a complete idiot in front of the locals, you know, I can handle the monkeys if they can, but my heart was beating out of my chest and I feared that the panic of leaving Virginie at the front door a few yards away was scribbled all over my ever increasingly lined brow. I shouldn't have run. No sudden moves.
I realize now why everyone moves so slowly here on the island. One has to keep one's eyes peeled for craziness and monkeys and swishing asses, newspaper and flying fish sales on the side of the road, crazy bad drivers. Of course there is the heat too. Put all those ingredients together and it is a wonder that anyone moves at all. I'm from Manhattan, even eight months pregnant I power walked through Central Park and carried grocery bags from Zabar's to my walk up apartment on the Upper West. I don't know from standing still.
I do know about the stealth, Zen-like moves that help one slide into the last subway seat in a sea of moving bodies. I know how to avoid the complete lunatic on the street who wants to talk with me urgently about whatever is tormenting his poor soul, the young person being paid $10 an hour to canvas my neighborhood for whatever cause might be in favor that month, the ice cream shop, candy vendors, toy stores en route to home at eyesight of the small people. I can use those skills here. What I didn't know, but am learning, is that acting on impulse to answer the door, race to the swimming lessons, threatening to leave my husband may cause avoidable damage and suffering. Whoa. I need to choose my steps wisely and carefully. I just might make it out of here alive.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
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