Today, as I left the office during a "little fall of rain," I looked to my intern and said, "We're about to see a rainbow. I don't know where, but I can feel it. I can smell it." I took a couple of moments and a few breaths... and looking over my left shoulder, there it was. "Told you," I said. Not a very big rainbow, nothing too impressive. Not overly extraordinary. But it was a rainbow; and a rainbow was enough to bring me back to this blog.
I've been wanting to share this story with you for the last month. But it hasn't been an easy one to get down on paper. Yet, keystroke by keystroke... here it is. Let's backtrack to February 8th, 2019. I was out of the country with some friends on the French Caribbean Island of Guadaloupe. It is an island I chose to go to, in part, because Anayra (@hotyogiana) and I both celebrate our birthdays on December 12th ... the Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe!
Once Upon a Time
A rainbow. I had been manifesting a rainbow that afternoon, imagining how God would paint the skies and bring some peace back to our group. It was our last day in Guadaloupe with only a few more hours of daylight. The day had gotten off to a pretty rough start — and now those Caribbean skies were going to rain soon. And there we were... driving around in a car of silent (but tense) passengers seeking out a beach in between patches of palm trees and volcanic rock. A rough day in Paradise -- why? Because we are all so human -- and human stuff has a tendency to get in the way sometimes, even in beautiful places. I sat in the back, praying for all of those sitting in front of me. Asking for peace. Asking for positive energy. Asking for healing. Extending Reiki energy over my friends from the back of the van. And asking God for a rainbow.
And asking God for a rainbow... OUT LOUD. My friends heard me talking to God about it throughout that hour drive. I didn't need to close my eyes to envision huge brilliant rays extending over the sky, as a reminder of God’s peace, God’s unity... and most of all, God’s promises. I imagined that, because faith can move mountains, that I could stretch my right hand in an arch along the blue sky (like Moses over the Red Sea), and God would paint a rainbow just behind it. Because all it should take is faith like a mustard seed. God, please take that seed and, in return, send us a rainbow.
And then we arrived. A beach called La Datcha -- rated high on TripAdvisor -- a true paradise. Waters of varying shades of teals and blues. Palm trees. Docked boats. White sands. Warm sun. Exactly what we needed. Exactly where we felt called to be.
The two groups went in different directions to “cool off” and give each other some needed space. My little trio walked the small beach, stopped for photos; there were swimmers and kayakers and sunbathers. Laughs and smiles and ordinary beach living. The water was the perfect refreshing temperature of cool; and clear enough to look down and see the fish swimming by your feet. Signs of life; signs of relaxation; signs of breath. No sign of a rainbow, though. But it was okay — because God had provided all of this paradise for us. (And Katie saw that it was good).
The three of us sat there on the sand, doing the normal things... chatting, sunscreen, soaking in the peace. After a brief swim, I grabbed my headphones for some music therapy for this soul. I chose Snatam Kaur’s “Crimson,” but Spotify had proven to be spotty-ified on my international streaming plan. I decided to switch to my iTunes library and chose Tony Alonso’s “I Will Lift My Eyes.” I had listened to that song several times during my Hawaii retreat in June. It holds great meaning for me; and I needed to hear it in that moment. The setting before me was majestic yet humble: mountains in the distance to my right, a sea in front of me. "It is time for me to move from my shelter of safety. To sail as a pilgrim into the waves of the sea... I will lift my eyes to the mountains, from whence shall come my help. My help shall come from the Lord. So I'll walk in the light of the path set before me, for I know your love will show me the way."
The Eighth Day
The Bible talks about the seven days of creation. And God saw that it was good. But what happened on the 8th day? Well, this was February the 8th... and we were about to find out.
It was all just perfection. Except something suddenly wasn't perfect. Something didn't fit.
Sounds. There were sounds that didn’t fit. Sounds that lifted my eyes to the left. Garbled sounds accompanied by confusing movement in the peace. Almost in slow motion, an older man with a big belly was charging toward the water. Sprinting. But why? A sudden sprint in paradise. I removed my headphones. "Something is wrong." And got the attention of my friends. And I stood up. "Something is wrong."
Just the day before I had told my friend Anayra that I had been a certified lifeguard as a teenager. And just the day before I had flashbacks to my training -- retrieving chairs from the 12 feet deep section of the pool, treading water with arms extended over my head, back board procedures, "sharking" exercises. Just the day before I looked back on a 16-year-old who physically had all the strong swimming skills and life saving certifications, but who had decided that the responsibility of a lifeguard was too weighted for my heart. Just the day before.
And here I was in paradise, almost twenty-five years later ... with a victim in a water incident.
"Go help them," I heard Anayra say, "You were trained as a lifeguard." And I was suddenly running over to a body being dragged from the Caribbean Sea among people who only spoke French. Honestly, even without any training, I know I would have gone. Because the drive to help is too much to keep my feet grounded. Because my heart makes decisions and my feet carry me before my brain catches up. Because a man was in trouble. Because I was a lifeguard. Because I would want someone to run to help me. Because are not that man and all of these strangers also children of God?
They rested his back on the sand; his face and chest were already a pale white. His lips bluish with pink foam; a tongue clumsily rolling in his mouth. I was sitting at his head, watching for them to find a pulse. A heartbeat. A breath. But nothing. No pulse. No breath. His body was warm, which I knew because I touched his head. His grayish hair, still newly wet from the salt water. As strangers started compressions, and liquid began to bubble up, I turned his head to the side to keep him from aspirating, should he take a breath. No pulse. Compressions continued, strangers taking turns — men, women. People who had come, like us, to sit in paradise for a day. People who had come, manifesting a rainbow.
I sat at his head closely watching and scanning this man's body. Watching the blood come out of his mouth and nose. Fake apparitions of breath from compressions fluffed air under his cheeks, giving me false hope more than once. His stomach and belly button bouncing up and down as if made of rubber. His arms and feet lifeless. Family standing in the crowd to my left yelling to him. A crowd gathering on both sides, mainly shouting things I didn’t understand (for which I was glad). The movements and sounds communicated enough. And I couldn't do anything except sit at his head and pray, “Please God, don’t let him die. Please God, let him breathe. Please God, help these people.” No pulse. No breath. Compressions continued.
I had a terrible gut feeling and knew I could do no more for this man. So, I backed up as CPR continued, walked back over to my friends and said, “he’s not going to make it.” And we just stood there and watched. Compressions continued. And praying continued. And meditation continued. Anayra said, "give me your hands." And I did. I could feel the grounded energy flowing through both of us - her energy, her pulse. My energy, my pulse. We were alive and breathing... manifesting hope, healing, life... and also manifesting, that if it were his time, a beautiful transition for this man.
Helpers carried over two large blue beach umbrellas to shade the man and those that were attempting to pump him back to life. We waited a painstakingly long time for emergency vehicles to arrive -- maybe 15 - 20 minutes. Of compressions. Of shocked family members stoically pacing and screaming. Of all of us holding our breath for him. And when vehicles did arrive, the same man who had originally sprinted into the water was now running to the vehicle and running back with equipment. He was about the same age as the man he dragged from the water. And it hit me -- we were trying to save his brother. And at that moment, feeling the need to connect, I FaceTimed my own brother and he sat in New Jersey watching with me the events that were unfurling in Guadaloupe.
And the work to save this life continued. The wife arrived. A blonde woman. Someone in the family had called her. Security guards tried to ease her path toward the chaotic umbrella scene. But no amount of protection could have sufficed for that poor woman in this moment. Her legs were giving out from under her, and she made her way around her lifeless husband to his feet as compressions continued. And then to his head on the right side of him. And she stayed there with him. The tide was coming in closer. Small raindrops began misting from the darkening sky. And after another 10 or so minutes, it all just stopped. Compressions stopped. Hope stopped. Our own hearts stopped. The man crossed over from this paradise to the next. It was all so final. And when they pronounced him dead, church bells tolled in parallel the distance behind us. The wife was kneeling in the sand to his left... gently reached around his neck, unclasped his necklace, and placed it on her own neck. The blue umbrellas were removed and they covered him in a white cloth.
And suddenly, the rain came, as if the sky had been torn in two -- half a paradise, half buckets of tears from the sky. As if symbolic of the man being caught between two different realities of paradise. Heaven and Earth. We cried. We prayed for his transition. We told him to go and fly. We prayed for this family, still grounded on this earthly sand. We hugged each other. I remember looking up to the sky asking, "Why, Lord? Why would you allow this to happen to this poor family on vacation?" I suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable and fearful and so small in the hands of God. "I asked for a rainbow. I didn't ask for this, Lord. I asked for peace and healing and forgiveness. I don't understand what just happened here. Those poor people, Lord. Where are YOU?!"
The juxtaposition of all of the polarities was intense. Yet even in the midst of the chaos, there was such beauty. A time for everything all at once... a time for weeping, for dancing. For destruction, and beauty. A time for every purpose. And THE time for this man to leap.
The air was thick. The moment was somber and holy. No more words. No more photos. No more memories, other than what my eyes could register. The body was on the sand with his wife sitting beside him. Someone had brought her over a smaller umbrella. And together the two of them were side by side on the sand as the rain washed down over all of us.
And all of a sudden, I saw it. The man. The wife. The umbrella. I could hardly believe my eyes. The very umbrella that was being held over this man to shield him from the rain was covered in rainbow stripes. The rainbow I was earlier manifesting as a reminder of God’s peace, God’s unity... and most of all, God’s promises. There it was. The rainbow was stretched over this man... not a rainbow in the way I expected, but better than I expected. God was there. God was there in this death. God was there in his new life. God was there in this rainbow. All of us were being held in God in this moment.
At some point, you have to pull yourself away from the scene, even though we had been firmly glued for almost an hour. Utterly speechless; overwhelmed by emotion; recirculating the images and the sounds. Feeling utterly helpless and out of control. Unable to stop my tears. And trying, with all of your humanity, to honor the control that only God holds. It was difficult.
Down the Via Dolorosa to Calvary
I needed to use a restroom, and the nearest was at the top of the hill. And as a friend and I walked up that hill from the beach, I noticed a huge crucifix at the top. Parc Paysager du Calvarie. I was being drawn to go over there. And there hung Jesus, overlooking La Dacha. The beach on which a man had just struggled and died. And, now standing in front of another man who understood suffering, it started to pour buckets and buckets of unrelenting water.
And you speak your intentions and go back to join your friends at the bottom of the hill. And as you walk, you bless yourself with the sign of the cross and, feeling so embraced by God in this moment, you want to bless everyone. Walking back down the hill in the torrential downpour, in Reiki practice, I rubbed my hands together in the way I had been taught. I extended my arms into the sky and prayed out loud that God bless all of the rain that fell from the sky. All of the rain that was pouring on that man, on his family, on the bystanders, on the police/medics... that all of us might be blessed and healed in this holy water. Reiki love. Reiki energy. Reiki blessing. All in the name of our good God.
On the Road Again
The car ride back was a different shade of quiet; but not because of the earlier morning incident, which now seemed so insignificant, but for what we had all witnessed that day on the beach. I had stayed away from taking new photos and had no interest in social media. But about half way through the ride, I did pop on Instagram and saw something quite incredible.
A couple of times in past, I have spoken of my friend and mentor Justin (@yogicielo). He led the super impactful retreat I was on in Hawaii last June. He also introduced me to Reiki, from both the perspective of a client and a practitioner. And, on occasion, something will happen to connect the two of us, even though we may be worlds apart. I don't doubt that it's a spiritual thing. Well this was one of those moments. When I opened Instagram, Justin's post was the first that I saw. It was a photo of a beach in LA... with palm trees and sand and water that looked so similar to where I had just been. And with it, he wrote Psalm 23 and of a reflection about his own dad who so suddenly had passed the year before. And, believe it or not, Psalm 23 was also the psalm that continued to repeat in my body during our previous Reiki session.
I texted Justin immediately and told him what happened and, after asking if I were okay, he responded, "that psalm is for you babe in this moment."
The 9th Day and Every Day Since
On the 9th of February, we all came back home to New Jersey, but certainly different than we had left only 4 days prior. I had thought many many times about this experience -- I've searched google trying to find a name for this man or an update on what had happened. But I can't find anything. And I guess the specifics really don't matter.
What does matter, however, is that God is infinitely good. In life. In death. In sun. In rain. We can never understand the reasons why things happen or the reason why we find ourselves randomly in certain places at certain times. God can handle the tears. God can handle the confusion. God can handle the fear. And God can handle us. May we celebrate every moment that we are together. May we forgive each other in tough times. May we cherish each and every breath that we are given. And may we love and be loved for every second that we are together on this Earth.
And God saw that it was Good.
Genesis 9:16
"Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.”
You are loved. xo
Songs for Meditation
Tony Alonso - "I Will Lift My Eyes to the Mountains"
Snatam Kaur - "Crimson"
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