Bush Tea

There’s nothing too simple about St. Thomas. There are small simplicities, however, like Bush Tea, an herbal drink made with the leaves of lemongrass, basil, and other herbs: bush. In some of the farmer’s stands at the market square on Sunday mornings you can find bundles of Bush Tea sitting neatly on dusty white tablecloths. The first days of life here we were served Bush Tea on a rolling cart made by Natalie and Dina at the reflections gathering. Once I found out that not more than three or four herbs were the only ingredients besides honey in this highly advertised local drink, I was greatly reassured.

Our first trip to the grocery store left us appalled. Almost everything costs five dollars at least. A can of coffee, five dollars, a box of chicken, five dollars, a loaf of bread, five dollars, a tub of yogurt, four dollars and one-hundred cents. Don’t get me started on restaurant prices, not that we have much time or reason to frequent that scene.

“What do you like about St. Lucia?” I asked Rick one evening after Feast.

“People are real nice down there. They’re a lot less materialistic.”

Melissa, a mother with whom we’ve become good friends, has big ideas for helping St. Thomas. “I gonna start a daycare when I win some money,” she proclaims as we study the pages of Teaching Children’s Classes, Grade 1. “I tellin’ you I gonna do big t’ings fah St. Thomas when I come into some money.”

“We’re already doin’ somethin’ for St. Thomas, Melissa. We’re starting with the children right here.”

Suddenly, instead of seeing a children’s class as a means to an end, she saw it as a means. “We can start with maybe one or two chirrun and den maybe we can help dem until they get good and ask them to help us with the others.” Together we decided we could start simply and add more elements as we were able.

Ask any St. Thomian and they won’t offer you the street names posted on metal signs hung from traffic lights. Directions are like back home, “Go past the Old Mill, then take a right up through Scott Free, follow that road over three bumps, then keep to the right past...” (Note: I’m not sure if Scott Free is the official name of the road and area through which the most nerve-wracking back road twists from our place to town, but that’s what everyone calls it). At least they’re a little easier to follow than the ever confusing Central American, standing in the road directing you with one slow upward movement of an arrowed hand, “Por alla!”

One day, on our way to the beach, Jahweh pointed to a dirt road branching from our main route. “We needa go that way some day,” she said, “It’s called ‘The Point’.” Apparently nothing more than a couple of big rocks on a peninsula, The Point appealed to me for one reason: simplicity.

Most days Nas and I are trying to simplify the math equations of our lives by reducing the number of individual visits to be made by introducing our friends to one another, thereby multiplying the number of people who are capable of service, and subtracting ourselves from the need to be around. Often, in an effort to be simple, we find ourselves overwhelmed in consultation and paperwork.

One prayer that loops on my iTunes constantly is a prayer recited in times of difficulties sung in Haitian Creole:

“Is there any Remover of difficulties, save God? Say: praised be God, He is God! All are His servants and all abide by His biding.” ~The Báb

SONG:
Ki lòt moun
pase Bon Dye
ki kapab fè
difikilte disparèt?

Ki lòt moun
pase Bon Dye
ki kapab fè
difikilte disparèt?

Di: Lwe Bon Dye.
Di: Lwe Bon Dye.

Se Li menm sèl
ki Bon Dye.

Nou tout
se sèvitè Li
epi nou tout
se sou kòmannman Li nou ye.

Nou tout
se sèvitè Li
epi nou tout
se sou kòmannman Li nou ye.

I find myself reciting this prayer under my breath in the midst of grocery shopping, driving through the neighborhood, talking with a friend, and running along the waterfront. Often times they’re the only words my scrabble brain has formed.

“What should we do about…?” Ki lot moun… “I’m so confused…” pase Bon Dye “She’s not coming.” ki kapab fe “We’re out of money and I’m not sure when our next transfer will come.” difikilte disparet?

Like a small windshield wiper, I often allow this prayer to clear my windshield when I can’t seem to make out the rushing horizon. Its short but potent language nurses my wounds and I wrap my hands around it like a mug of fresh Bush Tea. These small words and tiny goals I cling to because the big picture is much too vast to see all at once.