|
Breathing Deeply
Heather J. Kirk
© Copyright 2018 by Heather J.
Kirk
|
(c) Heather J. Kirk
|
Heather’s
extensive travel experiences and the interactions among people of
various cultures often find their way into Heather J. Kirk’s
writings. Heather has studied in Mexico City, lived in the Dominican
Republic and visited many other countries, including the Bahamas,
Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Cambodia and Australia (among others). As a
fine art photographer, Heather’s camera finds modern and ancient
architectures, as well as flowers, trees, landscapes and seascapes of
the Pangea she calls home. It is as if she “belongs” to both the
Caribbean and the desert of her home in Scottsdale, Arizona, which
due to the abundance of palm trees is ironically parallel.
Celtic
Christians called them “Thin Places,” locations where the
membrane between heaven and earth was thinner than other places. I
found mine speeding across the Caribbean Sea, looking at waves
reflecting the most amazing blue, against alternating sandy and rocky
shores, edged with the protected, lush green forest of the Dominican
Republic. Suddenly a combination of joy and peace touched the top of
my head, filled me up, then with a whoosh, pushed out through sandy
toes. It was as if the Breath of Life had just passed through me. Or,
I had passed through it. The thought paired with this joy was, "I
need to live here.”
As
a 44-year-old single woman with Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue
Syndrome, the task felt overwhelming. I spent the next six months
praying for God to guide me and give me a sign, until it dawned on me
I had already received my sign. When
asked
where I would be living, as if from the same illogical source as "I
need to live here," I inexplicably answered without a thought,
"Santo Domingo."
To
understand how ironic this is, you must know that this is a two hour
drive (plus a long boat ride) from Bayahibe and the Parque Nacional
del Este where I had found my Thin Place. There are no beaches in
Santo Domingo, as it was chosen as the place to build a fort and best
defend the island by Cristobal Colon (yes, Mr. Columbus), because of
the lava rock shores that would protect it from attacking enemy
ships. And though it is a coastal city, very little of that
particular color of blue water or lush green exists along the coast
in this city of three million people (and it feels like nine million
cars). I spent the next 8 months living in and learning many
difficult and many wonderful things about Santo Domingo - but it is a
strange answer for someone who made a decision to move looking at
nationally protected beaches and forests.
I
had one friend in the country, who happened to live in Santo Domingo,
so I thought the blurted answer was logical at some level. But the
timing was difficult. I saw him on the third day of my arrival, then
not again for five months, as he was driving teams of aid workers
into Haiti after the recent earthquake.
Within
two weeks I had found a place to live, moved in, organized my space,
and discovered that I spoke Mexican Spanish, not Dominican Spanish
(enough of a difference to make life difficult), in a city with three
million people, yet no geographical concentration of expats. I found
myself very lonely and very far away from that “thin place”
and God.
I
struggled with loneliness and depression, questioning my decision to
move. Did I sell my belongings and disrupt my life for this, to lie
on a bed exhausted, staring up at the ceiling fan and wishing I could
have afforded a room with air conditioning? With communication
problems (interpersonal and technological), transportation
constraints, monetary limits, college students striking nearby
(resulting in tear gas wafting into my room), dangers of traveling
alone as a woman, lack of friends, and getting sick whenever I ate
out, I felt, to put it bluntly - imprisoned.
From
the rooftop of my building I could see the ocean too far away for me
to walk to, until I built up a tolerance for walking in the humid
heat. I could also see groupings of trees here and there. But at
ground level nature disappeared behind buildings and concrete. I saw
only locked gates, high walls, roads full of potholes, vehicles
pressing into all available space, and visible pollution spouting
from tailpipes. I felt crowded in and conspicuous, with my tall blond
head a walking target for deception and men seeking visas to the
United States. My view was closed-in, fearful and limited –
‘tunnel vision of the heart’ is how I can best describe
it. Other than gasping sobs of loneliness cried into my pillow, even
my breathing became timid and shallow. I had become a different
person – the confident, friendly, artist who arrived here was
locked behind my own newly constructed walls.
Finally,
with a visit to the botanical gardens (Jardín Botánico
Nacional de Santo Domingo), I stepped into another world - a
surprising paradise of open space, pretty, brick-patterned sidewalks,
and sprawling ponds full of blooming water lilies. The map folded out
larger and larger, revealing paths to many different botanical worlds
waiting to be discovered. I noticed my constricted lungs releasing
all my pent up sadness and anxiety. I was safe in a world I
understood as an artist: flowers and landscapes, color and
photographic opportunities. I breathed deeply for the first time in
months. It was not a surprise to see printed on the map that I was
standing literally in “the lung of the city,” a large
protected area helping to clean the polluted air and provide oxygen
to the crowded city.
Later,
looking at the photographs I took, I saw my own instant
transformation in the petals of the water lilies. From being closed
up and alone, to feeling the breeze, being caught up in its motion,
accepting whatever life has to offer. I saw beauty had always been
there, even when my eyes were closed. In the garden, and in the
images, I learned it was safe to open up and breathe.
A
few days after my virtual lung transplant, I sat on an urban park
bench a block from my rented room that I had sat on a week before.
The park was actually a large, bricked median in the middle of a busy
street. Above my head, large maroon and yellow flowers bloomed in
columns from hanging vines that previously, I was sure, had been
long, dried sticks hanging from a dark sky. I looked up at the
immense green canopy above me, spreading from a giant tree, majestic
and lush.
How
could I have not seen the tree before? I confess I had seen its
sprawling roots, but all those green leaves? Never. For the first
time since living there I had truly looked up. I visited that bench
often in the months that ensued, as well as walked side streets where
I found balconies with bougainvilleas spilling over their railings,
and plumeria trees peeking out of walled-in yards. But the shift of
my mindset now placed me inside with the flowers, instead of alone
and locked out.
A
decade before, when disability took over, photography helped me
redefine myself; and there in a foreign land my camera once again was
the instrument that promised to find Thin
Places
and remind me to
breathe deeply wherever I went.
Still,
I like to live life on purpose, have answers and a specific goal to
work towards. I had none of that, except to try to figure out ‘Why?’
I was brought there.
One
thing I discovered in the heat and the relaxed culture is that
sometimes we are supposed to just 'be'. Maybe the 'Why?' was supposed
to come find me instead of me searching for it. But would I recognize
it? Is it necessary to recognize it? Now there’s a concept to
ponder - to fulfill a purpose and not even know you are doing it. But
in reality, that must happen all the time!
Yet
I expected that because the message to “Go” to the island
was so clear, the reason ‘Why?’ would eventually become
clear, and it did, mostly having to do with the people I met on my
journey. Every day of our lives contains purpose and meaning. Instead
of trying to identify and define it, constantly seeking and
questioning, I needed to just live my purpose out day by day by being
myself - because potentially every interaction, every conversation,
is full of importance, at a level we may never understand. Who knows
when and where anyone’s “Thin Place” will open up.
Faith
is a strange thing, needing a place or a person to rest in. I learned
I had to take my faith about my decision to move to the Dominican
Republic out of a fleeting feeling on a speedboat, and into the hands
of the God of all creation – otherwise I would not emotionally
survive the many trials I faced. I could again recall the rush of
spirit running through me, from head to foot, and remembered to
breath – but this time I promised to find, and hopefully
create, “Thin Places” for others, by carrying the Holy
Spirit, the Breath of Life, with me wherever I went.
(Messages are
forwarded by The Preservation Foundation.
So,
when you write to an author, please type his/her name
in
the subject
line of the message.)
Heather's
Story List And Biography
Book
Case
Home
Page
The
Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher