Freedom and Bondage

What is freedom? What is bondage? Interesting questions that can be tackled from a number of perspectives. When thinking of 'freedom' are we speaking specifically about physical freedom, the ability for unrestrained physical movement? Is it about the choice to travel, or to visit where we would like? Is it more about unbounded possibility rather than the actual act of doing? Or are we speaking more of 'legalistic' sense of the word - the state of existing as a 'free' man or woman in the eyes of society? Mercifully, days of 'legal' ownership of slaves has passed. That is not to say that there are not still forms of slavery being practiced in parts of the world. And what about war between nations - how does that aspect of the question play out?

Is freedom more than simple 'physical' freedom? What about freedom of thought? Or, freedom of religion? There are still states in this world where 'freedom of thought' is a rare and precious commodity. There are still dictatorships and communist countries which proport to know better than individuals what ideals and goals people should strive toward. There are daily examples of religious persecution around the world, and sometimes even in our own 'backyards'. They can take an active physical form - attacks on churches, synagogues and mosques - or followers of these religions, or they can be more subtle forms of attack, through government enforced regulations or by proponents of secular or humanistic 'quasi religions'.

And what about bondage? Is bondage necessarily tied to physical restraint? Can there be a bondage of mind? Are we made dependant upon others for decision making? Are we brainwashed by advertisers into believing that we 'need' certain products in order for our lives to be 'better'? Does 'hope' seem nonexistant in our lives? Are we being forced to 'conform' to the 'norms' of society, or to the current prevalent values and practices of the majority?

In February of 2011 members of the Writer's Circle took up the challenge of writing about 'Freedom and Bondage'. Efforts followed divergent aspects of thought paths and produced some interesting results.

Image Link: Google Images

FREEDOM AND BONDAGE

I have always known freedom. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in bondage. Without any hope of becoming free. However, is my imagination worth much at all?

I imagined for many years what it would be like to be hit by a major hurricane. I know some people who said they would like to experience it. Now they have, would they like to go through it again?

When hurricane Ivan hit Grand Cayman in September 2004, I was there.

I imagined a hurricane would be horrendous. I actually picture it in my mind, the devastation, see trees falling, hear the winds, even the torrential rains and the angry seas. But did it come near to my imagination? Not even close. It was so much worse.

How much worse? Well, the noise was five times as loud, the sea did more damage, came in so fast and I felt panic, even despair. The aftermath I didn’t imagine because I didn’t even think of it.

I lived for only two months like half the impoverished world live their whole life. But it was much worse for me. I had always been free. I could get what I wanted, when I wanted and no one to say ‘No, you can’t.’ I had money in the bank. It belonged to me. I was in charge of my life. No bonds to hold me back. Now it was different. I was imprisoned on an island without all the niceties I knew and had grown up in. What a shock. How could I possibly cope? How could I adapt? When would this misery and suffering end?

After the hurricane had passed the banks didn’t open at all. Some very few shops that did open would only accept cash. My plastic money was worthless. It was some weeks before the banks did open and when they did it was not for long. I queued in long lines, in hot sun, and if it was past the one and then two hours of opening time and I was still outside, I was turned away. I went home empty. And even if I did get inside the bank they told me how much they would let me have – of my own money! No electricity at home. No car. No gas and no running water. Food – I had to queue up for that too, and the amount again was limited. Water – a jug in hand and queue up again in the hot sun with others fighting – yes fighting to get a full jug of water!

There were curfews every night. Strangers in uniforms and carrying guns were everywhere.

 I had watched on television, thousands of people, living under tyrannical governments being beaten by uniformed police and soldiers, lying on the ground. “You never hit a man lying on the ground.” Does anyone ever hear that saying now, or remember it? The victims are hit by batons, kicked, pistol whipped. They queue for a handout and most times have to fight for it, too.

My suffering lasted only for a few weeks and got better by the months. I had hope. There was light at the end of my tunnel. I would be free, again. And, I was and I am now. My life is back to normal. Peace.

So how can I imagine being in bondage? Can I imagine the despair, the hopelessness, the beatings, the hunger? If I was in bondage and born into it. Not knowing any other life. Could I actually imagine freedom?

By: C.G. Wilson

Memories of 1939

The month was August, a few weeks into summer vacation. I was 11 years old that month, and the best part of the holiday was time at my Great Uncle Sterling Fisher’s property ‘Mount Pleasant’, a few miles above Runaway Bay on Jamaica’s beautiful North Coast. I was a lover of all animals from as far back as I could remember. At Mt. Pleasant I was surrounded by cats, dogs, chickens, but best of all – because it was a cattle breeding place, with dozens of beautiful cows, the bulls were safely kept away. I loved the smell of the cows, they were tame and gentle, and there was one that I could ride. My cousin Jim kept Polo ponies, and a thrill for me was being allowed to ride one, on a lead rope, which I thought unnecessary.

The house was an old one, large with huge rooms – our bedroom, shared by Mum, sister Jac. And myself, had an enormous 4 poster, so high it required 4 small steps to climb up. The windows, also large, looked over the grounds, to the sea at Runaway Bay, and beyond. At night, when the moon was up, I joined a bunch of local kids, kicking a football around, with much laughter. My Great Aunt Sis adopted numerous children, of all ages, from poor families, gave them a home and love, and taught them to read and write.

I have many memories of Mt. Pleasant. On the back verandah, hanging within reach, was a clay water jar, the water cooled by a ‘Thunder Bolt’, a smooth, silky stone, originally made by the Arawak Indians. It was one of their tools, and very treasured, found somewhere in an Arawak midden, perhaps on the property. The Arawaks, a peaceful people, long gone unfortunately.

I would be awoken in the morning by the voices of the cattlemen, calling the cows in to be milked. Happy carefree days – smells of Pimento berries drying in the barbecue, smell of cows and horses – swimming at Dry Harbour (Discovery Bay

Myself, a child with little understanding of what was on the horizon, the horrors of war. As August went by – the adults discussing their dread – radio constantly on BBC until late at night – Neville Chamberlain the Prime Minister “Peace in our Time” not to be; Poland invaded, September 3^rd war declared between Great Britain and Germany – it had begun, with the heartbreak of families. So many young Jamaicans volunteered at once, some who had been ‘big brothers’ to me, gone, many not to return. The day the world changed, to never be the same again.

By: Brenda Quin

Bondage and Freedom

Behind iron bars

of my mind’s making

I lie barely awake, passively

tied to this earth

through two bony legs

and the passions of the body.

Waiting,

enduring endless trials

answering the knocks

until at last angelic voices

beckon and arouse me

and I slip effortlessly,

Houdini-like,

from these chains.

Free of restraint,

rising on soaring spirit

entering into

the nearer presence,

to see clearly

in the blinding light.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

The Ocean

When you live on a small island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, the ocean is bound to have an effect on your way of thinking and your lifestyle. From your 'fun in the sun' beachside activities, right through to your 'hurricane worries', the ocean is an ever-present factor in your thoughts and everyday living. It teems with an abundance of life. It plays out its own rhythms. It sooths, comforts, rejuvenates, revitalizes...at times, it can even menace. The ocean is a constant factor which cannot be ignored. The members of the Writer's Circle acknowledged this fact through this sampling of writing exercises begun in July of 2010, and continued periodically up to today.

Nor’ wester Days

I love the wild and windy damp

when a strong Nor’ wester blows,

the sea with its white capped waves,

crash on the ironshore.

The blown spume fills the air

with mist, and scent of oceans far.

South of Hog Sty Bay,

the waves are breaking, building higher,

carrying debris from the ocean depths.

Sand and seaweed,

broken shells and coral,

carpeting the roadway,

all traffic has ceased,

only onlookers stand at a safe distance

above the road.

The sea in shades of green and aqua,

and many other hues,

nature in all its forms,

is truly wonderful to behold.

By: Brenda Quin

The Sea, a living canvas

This morning,

I watched a display,

put on just for me,

a living canvas

of so many blues,

with sprites bright like snow,

leaping up,

as joyfully as lambs.

They paused,

suspended in air,

thendissolved into mist.

The sea, inanimate?

Never.

By: Fiona Pimentel

 Image Link:  http://transitionscoachingcayman.wordpress.com/

South Sound Beach.

Small, dark coloured

birds feeding at the ocean’s edge,

clouds, feather like, above

the turquoise sea.

Casurina branches swaying on

the North East wind,

I stand upon the rock strewn

shore, lean against a drift log,

and watch small ghost crabs

emerging from their holes.

Alone, but not lonely, surrounded

by nature’s beauty. But yearning

for someone who sees as I

see, to share this precious

peaceful hour beside the quiet

sea.

By: Brenda Quin

I wish

I wish I had talent to write

About the smell of the sea,

Calling me to the cove,

How the wind lashes my face

And the fantastically huge waves

Splatter me with spray.

I wish I could swim at a hundred

Miles an hour, or surf over the horizon.

I wish I could rise up and fly.

So exhilarating….

I wish there could be no more tears…

By: Fiona Pimentel

15 Meetings with the Ocean.

I

The azure reflections call to mind

the deep sea recesses and

slow solitude of horizon, yonder.

II

A turquoise calm casts its spell

across the mirrored surface

of a windless ocean morning,

III

Lapping waters reach with

soft caress to sooth

tired body, and furtive

eyes, bringing sweet calm

of safe retreat.

IV

At three this morning

relentless pounding

of crashing waves

calls me from sleep, down

to the nearby cove.

V

I looked at her and recognized

the deep blue emptiness

of her eyes, the vast ocean

wasteland of her mind.

VI

Words sputtered out:

frothy foaming

of an exhausted ocean gale.

VII

Sounds of laughter

carry on a breeze,

good friends and small

children cavort together

on the edge of a point

of sand.

VIII

Weathered boat tied up

at the wharf, unloads

a bounty of life gathered

from the ocean depths,

men of the sea

mutter simple words.

IX

We gaze,

the ageless panorama of

a coastline scene framed

within the edges and panes

of summer cottage windows.

X

Lines of white horses

gallop over the reef

and ride up into the nestling cove

below the cliffs.

XI

My tongue circles above and below:

the salty lick of the old dog sea.

 

XII

A restlessness rustles beating beneath

my sweater; an irrepressible

desire drives my feet

across the sands of deserted

beachhead.

XIII

Fast eddies and shallow rock pools;

tidal waters retreat leaving

playgrounds for the inquisitive,

a harbour of hope for the

small creatures of the shore.

XIV

Dark clouds line the sky;

at water’s edge

my eyes meet the surly mood

of a stormy North Atlantic Sea.

XV

Within the glow of setting

sun, the tentative touch

of lovers in the evening hours,

a quiet walk along the

shoreline sand.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

Stars

At night, sometimes we look up into the vast sky and gaze at the stars and other heavenly bodies. It helps give us perspective on our lives. The immensity of nature is so strikingly apparent. Our cares and worries pale in comparison to the scope of the rhythms of the universe. We are so small, so seemingly insignificant, yet we have assurance that we are important and that our creator has knowledge of even the number of hairs on our head. Members of the Writer's Circle tackled the topic of 'Stars'. Here are some of the related efforts.

STARS – essay/story

Just as there are many hundreds and thousands of people on this rock we call Earth, so there are many hundreds and thousands of other rocks, some just like this one, many not, scattered through the wide canopy of the sky.

Hundreds and thousands of rocks reflecting light for their many suns and it is these luminous refractions which cause them to glimmer and shine so that creatures, like us, who live on this rock, and those, unlike us, who live on other rocks, can see them and wonder.

Now, we being human, tend to live in clusters, firstly of family, secondly in societies, and stars being scatterings of shattered planets and rocks, live in clusters called constellations, all gathered in fractured groups of individual lights forming a mass, making a cosmos.

Like in our societies and groups there’s the big boss, the Sun, the one that is fierce and deadly brilliant and the world revolves around them. Then the North Star, a constant point from which we take our bearings to venture out into the world, then, the dependable one, the who watches, like Venus, a planet which is also dependable and faithful and has the brightness of true love – coming early, way before anyone else, and staying way after all the others have gone to sleep…

Just as there are those in our world who can’t or do not survive, so too are there reflections of this star world. Some, like us humans, fall into black holes and never emerge from that depression, other stars released from the orbits which kept them grounded, release themselves from all care and throw themselves with abandon into the night, going out in a blaze of glory. Which, from the distance of the observer, is always much paler and insignificant.

By: Juliet Garricks

Sun – haiku

Ra; father of earth,

Lonely Daystar marks time and

Chases Mother Moon.

By: Juliet Garricks

THE STAR

By: C.G. Wilson

I’m like a speck of dust,

Just a ray of light

Shining on Earth’s crust

Only seen at night.

I sparkle like a diamond

A magnificent precious jewel

Around me all is darkened

Encasing me in a capsule.

I twinkle when I shine

Looking down on you below

I even see the coastline

Where the sea reflects my shadow.

I proclaimed the birth of a baby boy

Thousands of years ago

Who brought you peace and much joy

Though some thought Him a foe.

When next you look up in the sky

And see the thousands of stars

Somewhere amongst them I lie

I’m the nearest to planet Mars.

“Night Fall”

The night falls silent,

moon and stars illuminate,

the ocean peaceful, sleeps.

By: Brenda Quin

Haiku 3

Starlight shining down:

Heavenly reminder of

watchful angel eyes.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

Treasures

Life is full of 'treasures'. What one man treasures, another takes for granted, or sometimes looks down his/her nose at. Oftentimes, memories are some of life's most precious 'treasures'. These treasures we can carry with us through life, and beyond. They become part of us, shared trophies that help us summon up the warmth of friendship, or the beauty of one of life's moments amidst the grandure of nature. Writers have their own 'treasures' and ways of experiencing and reflecting upon them. Here is a sampling of some of those from members of the Writer's Circle:

The Ancient Relic at Boatswain Beach.

It stands perhaps grotesque in

its antiquity.

Root bound to the ironshore,

bereft of branch or foliage.

The massive trunk sun

bleached to shades of driftwood

grey. Scarred by fires, eroding

from termite trails. Broken

pieces lying scattered in the

surrounding scrub.

This monument, to ages past, its

history unknown.

I visualize a seed ripening,

falling from its mother tree

on the banks of the mighty

Amazon River. Tossed,

swept away by the current,

always towards the ocean sea.

The seed, fertile, seeking a

place to grow, mature and

reproduce, finds its home,

but the seed, still unknown,

resides on the shore

of Grand Cayman.

By: Brenda Quin

Life

By: C.G. Wilson

A peck of seed

A grain of dust

A drop of rain

A ray of sun

A breath of air.

Life needs all these

And more

Life struggles

To survive

It does.

Too much of one

Is as bad

As too little

Life itself

An act of balance.

Where did it all start?

Will it all come apart?

Is there a God?

Why should we be good?

Is evil so bad?

Why do we make friends?

Why do we have enemies?

Why do we come and rescue persons in distress?

Why do we make war upon them?

Why do we try and blow up this world?

We use 4 letter words

Most disgust

A powerful one is HATE

But the most powerful

The most beautiful one

Is L-O-V-E.

At Miss Lassie’s House

I stand beneath a massive group

of sea grape trees.

Their gnarled and tangled growth,

survived over countless years.

Their roots, buried deep amongst

limestone rocks, and sandy soil.

Enduring nameless storms, but now

supporting young, new growth.

I look up at this magnificence of

Nature, the awe-inspiring

natural art forms –

knowing that without them,

there is no life, hope.

These we cannot create,

but nurture them we must.

The air perfumed by fallen

purple fruit. New seed will sprout,

the circle of life continues,

endlessly.

By: Brenda Quin

Colour of Love

What is the colour of love?

Is it the deep blue-black of the

ocean depths, or the dazzling bright blue

of a cloudless Caribbean sky?

Perhaps it is the brilliant red of the

Poinciana blossoms at the start

of the rainy season, or the

deep red drops of precious blood,

spilt in a sacrificial rite?

Then again, it could be the lush

gracious green of springtime meadows

and fields, as new life fills the

void of winter emptiness.

Or perhaps it is the blinding yellow

of streaming sunlight, that

basking glow that surrounds and

holds us in warming rays of promise.

But I think it is most likely

the splash of rainbow colours

streaked across the misty sky

after life-giving rains;

puncturing the atmosphere and

seeping into the parched soil;

the promise of “never again”.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

ENCYCLOPAEDIA AND CYCLOPAEDIA

By: C.G. Wilson

My father kept very few “treasures” except for two very old “huge” books kept in the side shelf of a wooden black cabinet with glass door kept in the hall of my first house. I say first house because it was the house I grew up in until I was nine years old and then it was a procession of always moving. By the time I married at the age of 23 we had moved another six times! What happened to the two huge books in the moving process is a mystery. They just disappeared and I have not thought anything about them until this exercise at our last Writer’s Club Meeting. And when was that? It seems a long time ago. Two, or was it three weeks?

I am digressing, as I always do, and just a few lines become a book! Well, books – huge books. To me, as a child they were huge. Just two of them filled the shelf in the cabinet. I had great difficulty in getting them out and for a number of years I would sit or lay down on my belly upon the floor by the cabinet and read them. Not really read them at first – just turn the pages and look for pictures, and they both contained plenty of pictures. Coloured ones, glossy and there was yellow faded transparent paper between the leaves. In fact even the printed pages were yellow. To me, that was even more of an attraction.

I learnt to read at a pretty young age and I loved reading so it wasn’t long before I moved from just viewing the pictures and read the text. The books were of similar size but one was a greyish blue and the other was a burgundy red with gold lettering and lines. This book was an encyclopaedia and the other was a cyclopaedia. To this day I don’t know what the differences are and a check online and dictionaries hasn’t helped. They seem to be the same. However, these two books were very different, or so they seemed to me, at least physically. The print, the style, the binding and the thickness of the paper was as like as chalk and cheese.

The cyclopaedia’s paper was thicker and the print style was clearer to read. There weren’t so many photographs as the encyclopaedia but there were more drawings accompanying the words. The words in bold type were in alphabetical order. Then, there was the date, 1856. Almost a hundred years older than me. The encyclopaedia had a date of 1920. Even that was old. As a child, twenty years was very old and did not seem a long time away from an hundred.

These two books fascinated me until I grew out of them, I suppose, and when they disappeared I didn’t really miss them until now.

Collections

Seashells, small select shapes,

interesting bits of colour.

I gather and carry them

home; placed in a bucket

on a shelf, amongst

a thousand others:

faded, washed out

without the water.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

Putting it in Print

Various members of the Cayman Writer's Circle have taken steps to have some of their work put in to a printed form.

C.G. Wilson writes editorials and articles for the iNews paper which has both a printed form for sale daily, and an online site. Editorials can be viewed at the following site location:

Site Link:  http://www.ieyenews.com/category/editorial/

Brenda Quin and Peter Westin co-authored a book of poetry, published in paperback in August 2010. Book information is available at the following location:

Site Link: http://thatstillsmallvoicepoetry.weebly.com/



Amazon has Kindle versions of this book for a very reasonable rate. The Amazon site address is as follows: (Note - Site says cost is $5.99 but actual cost is $3.99 USD)

Site Link:  http://www.amazon.com/That-Still-Small-Voice-ebook/dp/B006HIR3YU/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1334367064&sr=1-1-catcorr

Joan Wilson authored a book of poetry published in August of 2008. It was available in local bookstores and from Colin or Joan Wilson directly.



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