In Sunday’s post, A Guest in My Own Home, I wrote about an attitude I have that I think affects my ability to put myself “out there” socially: something that might be termed “Good Guest Syndrome.”
As I wrote there, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to be a “good guest” and not a thing wrong with respecting whatever culture one puts oneself into. Where I’ve gone wrong is in being too reticent—too hesitant and too cautious—for someone who’s made a decision to make this place my home.
Further reflection yielded an additional element to the attitudes that are, perhaps, holding me back socially. I call it “Haole Guilt.”
In Hawai‘ian, “Haole” means “white person” or “foreigner.” The term can be affectionate or disparaging applied to a white person or foreigner, depending on how the speaker feels about the haole, but generally it’s understood to refer to those whites who act arrogant and superior, especially those of Hawai‘ian or half-Hawai‘ian descent who have adopted the ways and attitudes of whites.
I believe myself to be humble; I hope I approach Hawai‘ian culture with an attitude of humility, reverence, appreciation, and curiosity. I do not (consciously) think of myself as a “haole,” at least not the kind of whom the term is used disparagingly.
I find myself astoundingly conscious, however, of the injustices suffered by indigenous Hawai‘ians, particularly at the hands of the U.S. government. Every weekend I see (and someday soon I’m going to patronize) a barbecue selling huli chicken as a fundraiser for “Lawful Hawai‘ian Government.” Every day I see vehicles with bumper stickers calling for a “Reinstated Hawai‘ian Nation.” Even a cursory review of the history makes it seem clear that the U.S. government illegally annexed the Hawai‘ian Islands against the wishes of its lawful and sovereign government and its indigenous population.
In addition, haole were responsible for the suppression of Hawai‘ian culture and language, although to be fair it was also haole New England missionaries who initially strove to preserve Hawai‘ian language and tradition.
I am deeply sympathetic with Hawai‘ians who feel robbed of their heritage and who long for independence and self-determination. And because I am sympathetic, I feel a measure of “haole guilt”—guilt by association for the wrongs done by “white people”—even though I personally did none of them.
I wear the face of their ancestors’ oppressors. Out of respect, I hold back from pushing myself into a culture that I believe has the “right” to refuse me, even though I personally have committed no offense.
Again, though, as with “Good Guest Syndrome,” “Haole Guilt” goes too far. I tend to be so concerned about giving offense that I avoid opportunities to be welcomed in (and it is a welcoming culture). I borrow trouble I don’t have, don’t need, and don’t deserve.
“Good Guest Syndrome” and “Haole Guilt” have worthy roots, but have grown too broad and now block the rays of the life-giving sun. It’s time for a pruning.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
A Guest in My Own Home
Today I toured downtown Lahaina as part of a program called “History in Our Back Yard,” organized by the Lahaina Restoration Foundation (a non-profit historical society that manages a number of historic sites in the town). The program is intended for teachers in the area, and between 10 and 15 teachers enjoyed a walking tour of significant historic and cultural sites while volunteers explained their significance.
Sites ranged from Moku ‘Ula, the sacred island where once Hawai‘ian royalty dwelled to the old prison and everything in between: three Buddhist Missions, the oldest church in Lahaina, the King’s Taro Patch, the Baldwin House, Hale Aloha, the courthouse, the banyan tree, the Pioneer Hotel, the print house where the first newspaper west of the Rockies was published (in the Hawai‘ian language), the smokestack for the old sugar mill...more than I can easily name. It was amazing (just like last week’s Huaka‘i bus tour), and added to the mound of evidence that I am where I belong.
On the mainland, I was in many ways a round peg in a world with square holes. On Maui, I find smooth, well-worn round holes where I fit just fine. I am home.
The cruise ship was anchored off shore, making today “Boat Day,” and the area by the courthouse was swarming with posturing, posing, self-important “Look at me!” cruise passengers (tourists). They were loud and obnoxious, and everything they did was clearly intended to draw attention to them.
It worked, too, though in my case at least, the attention was not admiring or appreciative. They had no attention to spare for the amazing place they stood; all their attention was on getting the attention of others. “Tourists,” I thought. “If they only knew how ridiculous they look.”
I much prefer the stereotypical rubbernecking redneck, getting a crick from looking at the tall buildings in New York City; s/he is interested (if unsophisticated), and I myself have stood in awe with my jaw hanging open, without one thought for how I looked. Awesome sights ought to be seen as wonders, and wonders deserve a reaction. I pray I’m never “too cool” to gawk and point at something wonderful.
This led me to reflect a little on how I, a lifelong tourist in many ways, did it differently.
My sojourn as a world traveling tourist began when I was a Navy rating on the U.S.S. England, a guided missile cruiser. I sometimes think that the very best thing about being in the Navy was the chance to travel. While I didn’t travel as much as some, I still visited: Victoria, British Columbia; Subic Bay, the Philippines; Singapore; and Perth, Australia. I loved it.
I loved meeting new people and seeing new places and learning about cultures other than the one I grew up with. I loved discovering different customs and different cuisines and different couture. I was always mindful that I was a guest and as a good guest, it was my duty to adapt to whatever degree possible to the culture and customs of my hosts.
I was always a little embarrassed for my shipmates and countrymen who just didn’t get it; who apparently had no capacity to appreciate the “different.”
They were the ones who wouldn’t even try food that wasn’t what they were used to at home. They were the ones who figured that English was the only “natural” human language, and if you just spoke it loudly and slowly enough, any “heathen” would automatically understand. They were the ones who asked for cheap American beer in Australia (which had a number of quite good beers, and no, I don’t mean Foster’s). They were the ones who lived in a fantasy world where everything was just like it was “at home” and if it wasn’t, then somebody was doing it wrong (and “somebody” was whoever wasn’t doing it like it was done at home).
In a word, they were arrogant, and I had no desire to be numbered among them.
I’m not trying to suggest that I was some tourist paragon; I was quite likely less culturally sensitive than I should have been, but at least I tried, and I believe my hosts gave me credit for the effort. I was always treated very well by the indigenes I met, and to this day I take some pride in that. I at least tried to be humble and understand my hosts and their culture, rather than be arrogant and instruct people on what they were doing wrong.
Later, I had the privilege of traveling to Mali to visit my dear friend Angie, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in that country for three years and more. Again, I sought to adapt to the degree it was practical, and to learn what it was like there, rather than try to make it just like the place I called home.
Likewise, for the past twelve years I’ve traveled with my family to Hawai‘i and all of us came not to live the way we did on the mainland but instead to explore and discover the ‘āina (the land) and its customs and culture. We met the people where they were and tried to get to know them, we got away from the tourist destinations and activities (although we did some; a luau is really not optional for first-time visitors, and it can educate), we put ourselves where we could encounter the “real” Hawai‘i.
When I moved to Maui almost 10 weeks ago, I did much the same. I avoided the tourist destinations and activities (for the most part). I strove to adapt to the rhythms and patterns and practices of island life. I sought to learn and understand the culture I choose to be a part of.
Today’s epiphany was that as I’ve done this I have continued to think of myself as a guest. I’ve been a good guest, respectful and flexible and humble, but I’ve behaved as if I don’t belong. My customary reserve has been intensified by this, so I haven’t asserted myself, asking to be included in social events or activities, putting myself into social circles, inviting myself along.
Silly.
I am not a guest. This is my home, now; this is where I belong. I am not a guest.
I am home.
Sites ranged from Moku ‘Ula, the sacred island where once Hawai‘ian royalty dwelled to the old prison and everything in between: three Buddhist Missions, the oldest church in Lahaina, the King’s Taro Patch, the Baldwin House, Hale Aloha, the courthouse, the banyan tree, the Pioneer Hotel, the print house where the first newspaper west of the Rockies was published (in the Hawai‘ian language), the smokestack for the old sugar mill...more than I can easily name. It was amazing (just like last week’s Huaka‘i bus tour), and added to the mound of evidence that I am where I belong.
On the mainland, I was in many ways a round peg in a world with square holes. On Maui, I find smooth, well-worn round holes where I fit just fine. I am home.
The cruise ship was anchored off shore, making today “Boat Day,” and the area by the courthouse was swarming with posturing, posing, self-important “Look at me!” cruise passengers (tourists). They were loud and obnoxious, and everything they did was clearly intended to draw attention to them.
It worked, too, though in my case at least, the attention was not admiring or appreciative. They had no attention to spare for the amazing place they stood; all their attention was on getting the attention of others. “Tourists,” I thought. “If they only knew how ridiculous they look.”
I much prefer the stereotypical rubbernecking redneck, getting a crick from looking at the tall buildings in New York City; s/he is interested (if unsophisticated), and I myself have stood in awe with my jaw hanging open, without one thought for how I looked. Awesome sights ought to be seen as wonders, and wonders deserve a reaction. I pray I’m never “too cool” to gawk and point at something wonderful.
This led me to reflect a little on how I, a lifelong tourist in many ways, did it differently.
My sojourn as a world traveling tourist began when I was a Navy rating on the U.S.S. England, a guided missile cruiser. I sometimes think that the very best thing about being in the Navy was the chance to travel. While I didn’t travel as much as some, I still visited: Victoria, British Columbia; Subic Bay, the Philippines; Singapore; and Perth, Australia. I loved it.
I loved meeting new people and seeing new places and learning about cultures other than the one I grew up with. I loved discovering different customs and different cuisines and different couture. I was always mindful that I was a guest and as a good guest, it was my duty to adapt to whatever degree possible to the culture and customs of my hosts.
I was always a little embarrassed for my shipmates and countrymen who just didn’t get it; who apparently had no capacity to appreciate the “different.”
They were the ones who wouldn’t even try food that wasn’t what they were used to at home. They were the ones who figured that English was the only “natural” human language, and if you just spoke it loudly and slowly enough, any “heathen” would automatically understand. They were the ones who asked for cheap American beer in Australia (which had a number of quite good beers, and no, I don’t mean Foster’s). They were the ones who lived in a fantasy world where everything was just like it was “at home” and if it wasn’t, then somebody was doing it wrong (and “somebody” was whoever wasn’t doing it like it was done at home).
In a word, they were arrogant, and I had no desire to be numbered among them.
I’m not trying to suggest that I was some tourist paragon; I was quite likely less culturally sensitive than I should have been, but at least I tried, and I believe my hosts gave me credit for the effort. I was always treated very well by the indigenes I met, and to this day I take some pride in that. I at least tried to be humble and understand my hosts and their culture, rather than be arrogant and instruct people on what they were doing wrong.
Later, I had the privilege of traveling to Mali to visit my dear friend Angie, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in that country for three years and more. Again, I sought to adapt to the degree it was practical, and to learn what it was like there, rather than try to make it just like the place I called home.
Likewise, for the past twelve years I’ve traveled with my family to Hawai‘i and all of us came not to live the way we did on the mainland but instead to explore and discover the ‘āina (the land) and its customs and culture. We met the people where they were and tried to get to know them, we got away from the tourist destinations and activities (although we did some; a luau is really not optional for first-time visitors, and it can educate), we put ourselves where we could encounter the “real” Hawai‘i.
When I moved to Maui almost 10 weeks ago, I did much the same. I avoided the tourist destinations and activities (for the most part). I strove to adapt to the rhythms and patterns and practices of island life. I sought to learn and understand the culture I choose to be a part of.
Today’s epiphany was that as I’ve done this I have continued to think of myself as a guest. I’ve been a good guest, respectful and flexible and humble, but I’ve behaved as if I don’t belong. My customary reserve has been intensified by this, so I haven’t asserted myself, asking to be included in social events or activities, putting myself into social circles, inviting myself along.
Silly.
I am not a guest. This is my home, now; this is where I belong. I am not a guest.
I am home.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
ʻIke Pilina...ʻIke Honua
‘Ike pilina
‘Ike honua
‘Ike piko‘u
This weekend I started “Kahua 1A: An Introduction to Culture-Based Education,” a professional development course offered through a partnership between Kamehameha Schools and Hawai‘i Department of Education.
The course is at least a little immersive—every session starts and ends with traditional Hawai‘ian chants and some instruction alternates between Hawai‘ian and English languages—it (rightly, in my opinion) emphasizes the value of indigenous culture and the importance of accommodating a teacher’s practices to the values and practices of that culture. For a haole like me it’s especially important; I want to belong here, and that means finding ways to fit myself into culture as it is and not force the culture to accommodate me as I am.
Yesterday’s session was a bus and walking tour focused on ‘ike honua—a sense of place—we visited both historic sites (Ukumehame, Olowalu, Dragon’s Teeth/Pi‘ilani Lookout, etc.) and places that students either live or hang out (Ukumehame again, Honolua, Ka‘anapali, etc.). We stopped several times to take in the spirit of the place, and even a frequent skeptic like me can sense whatever is meant by “the spirit” of a place.
Each place had a story of its own, as well. Ukumehame has centuries of agricultural history, Olowalu was the site of a bloody clash between Europeans and Hawai‘ians, and Pi‘ilani Lookout was where Ali‘i (“chief” or “leader”) Pi‘ilani went to oversee the outer islands of his kingdom, Lana‘i and Moloka‘i.
Pi‘ilani also went to his lookout to release his worries and concerns, the things that might keep him from ruling effectively. The winds at Pi‘ilani Lookout are strong, and the thought was that any concern released there was taken up by the wind and blown away. We were invited to do as Pi‘ilani did and release anything that might be holding us back: to inhale then deliberately exhale, letting our breath carry our burdens into the outer air, three times.
I have made considerable progress in “letting go” over the last three months, but as of yesterday morning I was still carrying a burden of resentment and anger that in some small way was holding me back. I found a spot along the cliff facing the wind and the ocean with the sun at my back, and I centered myself, and three times I focused on releasing my resentment and anger and hurt into the air as I exhaled deliberately. As I did, I felt my heart lifting (it was already soaring pretty high; if it goes much higher, I’ll need to give it the same warning given to Icarus).
Most of you know full well that I’m a bit of a romantic, and that sense of letting go could very easily be a part of that romanticism. Yet this morning I awoke, and probing carefully, the way one’s tongue probes an aching tooth, I found only the echo of an ache where before I felt throbbing pain. Maybe, at Pi‘ilani Lookout, I was finally able to take the next step in forgiving and moving on. I’d like to think so.
We also stopped at the Ka‘anapali Beach Hotel, where we were fed like ali‘i and got to see some amazing artifacts made by the hotel staff during the economic crash; the owners and management didn’t want to lay anyone off, so they gave them work discovering traditional tools and techniques.
Friday’s session focused on ‘ike pilina—a sense of relationship—and in that session I got a sense of what may have drawn me to Hawai‘i for so many years and why, despite significant challenges, I feel so very happy.
Among the values integral to Hawai‘ian culture are “‘ohana”—family, kinship group, relations—“kuleana”—right, privilege, concern, responsibility—“kāko‘o”—support—and “pilina”—relationship, union, connection. And pilina is not just interpersonal relationship; it includes relationship with the ʻāina—the land. Pilina is important in Hawai‘ian culture...and it is likewise important to me.
I make no claim to being a great teacher. I am a competent teacher. If I get great results (and I think sometimes I do) it is because I make great relationships with students. An almost proveribal phrase once frequently heard (and lived out) at my former school is, “They won’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” That aphorism fits nicely into Hawai‘ian culture, which additionally has many excellent proverbial sayings (“‘ōlelo no ‘eau”) relating to learning and relationship:
At the end of Friday’s session we went around the circle, each speaking our “take away” in one word. My word was “home.”
I am home. Come visit!
“Aloha, komo mai!” Welcome!
‘Ike honua
‘Ike piko‘u
This weekend I started “Kahua 1A: An Introduction to Culture-Based Education,” a professional development course offered through a partnership between Kamehameha Schools and Hawai‘i Department of Education.
KahuaIt’s a course intended to equip teachers to better understand and serve students raised in or thrust into Hawai‘ian culture, and it focuses on three things, two of which were covered in Friday night and Saturday sessions.
- Foundation, base, site, location, ground, background, platform, as of a house; an open place, as for camping or for sports, as for ‘ulu maika or hōlua sliding; playground area, arena, stand, stage, courtyard course, camp; bed, as of a stream. fig., declaration of principles or policy, doctrine, platform
- Base of a quilt on which the pattern (lau) is appliquéd; this base is above the layer of cotton or wool. The pili is below it.
The course is at least a little immersive—every session starts and ends with traditional Hawai‘ian chants and some instruction alternates between Hawai‘ian and English languages—it (rightly, in my opinion) emphasizes the value of indigenous culture and the importance of accommodating a teacher’s practices to the values and practices of that culture. For a haole like me it’s especially important; I want to belong here, and that means finding ways to fit myself into culture as it is and not force the culture to accommodate me as I am.
Yesterday’s session was a bus and walking tour focused on ‘ike honua—a sense of place—we visited both historic sites (Ukumehame, Olowalu, Dragon’s Teeth/Pi‘ilani Lookout, etc.) and places that students either live or hang out (Ukumehame again, Honolua, Ka‘anapali, etc.). We stopped several times to take in the spirit of the place, and even a frequent skeptic like me can sense whatever is meant by “the spirit” of a place.
Each place had a story of its own, as well. Ukumehame has centuries of agricultural history, Olowalu was the site of a bloody clash between Europeans and Hawai‘ians, and Pi‘ilani Lookout was where Ali‘i (“chief” or “leader”) Pi‘ilani went to oversee the outer islands of his kingdom, Lana‘i and Moloka‘i.
Dragon’s Teeth
Pi‘ilani also went to his lookout to release his worries and concerns, the things that might keep him from ruling effectively. The winds at Pi‘ilani Lookout are strong, and the thought was that any concern released there was taken up by the wind and blown away. We were invited to do as Pi‘ilani did and release anything that might be holding us back: to inhale then deliberately exhale, letting our breath carry our burdens into the outer air, three times.
I have made considerable progress in “letting go” over the last three months, but as of yesterday morning I was still carrying a burden of resentment and anger that in some small way was holding me back. I found a spot along the cliff facing the wind and the ocean with the sun at my back, and I centered myself, and three times I focused on releasing my resentment and anger and hurt into the air as I exhaled deliberately. As I did, I felt my heart lifting (it was already soaring pretty high; if it goes much higher, I’ll need to give it the same warning given to Icarus).
Most of you know full well that I’m a bit of a romantic, and that sense of letting go could very easily be a part of that romanticism. Yet this morning I awoke, and probing carefully, the way one’s tongue probes an aching tooth, I found only the echo of an ache where before I felt throbbing pain. Maybe, at Pi‘ilani Lookout, I was finally able to take the next step in forgiving and moving on. I’d like to think so.
We also stopped at the Ka‘anapali Beach Hotel, where we were fed like ali‘i and got to see some amazing artifacts made by the hotel staff during the economic crash; the owners and management didn’t want to lay anyone off, so they gave them work discovering traditional tools and techniques.
Traditional tools
Poi Board
Awa Bowls
Weapons
Paddle
Toys for keiki (children)
Friday’s session focused on ‘ike pilina—a sense of relationship—and in that session I got a sense of what may have drawn me to Hawai‘i for so many years and why, despite significant challenges, I feel so very happy.
Among the values integral to Hawai‘ian culture are “‘ohana”—family, kinship group, relations—“kuleana”—right, privilege, concern, responsibility—“kāko‘o”—support—and “pilina”—relationship, union, connection. And pilina is not just interpersonal relationship; it includes relationship with the ʻāina—the land. Pilina is important in Hawai‘ian culture...and it is likewise important to me.
I make no claim to being a great teacher. I am a competent teacher. If I get great results (and I think sometimes I do) it is because I make great relationships with students. An almost proveribal phrase once frequently heard (and lived out) at my former school is, “They won’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” That aphorism fits nicely into Hawai‘ian culture, which additionally has many excellent proverbial sayings (“‘ōlelo no ‘eau”) relating to learning and relationship:
- Ma ka hana ka ‘ike (learning is in the doing)
- ‘A‘ohe pau ka ‘ike i ka hālau ho‘okahi (all knowledge is not learned in one place—“hālau” is a learning environment)
- ‘A‘ohe hana nui ke alu ‘ia (no task is too great when done together)
At the end of Friday’s session we went around the circle, each speaking our “take away” in one word. My word was “home.”
I am home. Come visit!
“Aloha, komo mai!” Welcome!
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Roll-Your-Own Luck
It’s been a busy week. Work, of course, a birthday on Tuesday (when you’ve had as many as I have, they tend not to be so momentous), chaperoning a dance last night, a scuba hunt for lobster just after midnight this morning (first day of the season)...it’s been a good week.
I turned 53 on Tuesday. Birthdays have gotten pretty routine; I won’t concern myself overmuch with birthdays, as long as I keep having them. Mine started with a FaceTime conversation with my best friend Wayne, who remains on the mainland. One of my classes sang “Happy Birthday” to me, about as well as you might expect an 8th grade class to sing it, and I treated myself to a burger at Teddy’s Bigger Burger in Lahaiana Gateway:
...but otherwise didn’t do much, and that was fine. I am pleased that at the age of 53, I am as fit and able as I’ve been in probably 20 years. I can keep kidding myself that “I’m not getting older; I’m getting better!” for another year.
This week was “Renaissance” nomination week at Lahaina Intermediate School. Teachers nominate students for a variety of awards relating to academic excellence, character excellence, and improvement in those categories. Teachers also nominate teachers for “Teacher of the Month” awards and students also get to nominate who they consider to be the “Teacher of the Month.”
I’m the “new kid”—I really had no expectations of being nominated by either colleagues or students. It’s a small school, and it is reasonable to assume at a small school that the people who have been there for a while would be favored over a newcomer. I know many students like me, but that does not mean that they ought to nominate me as “Teacher of the Month,” and my colleagues are a long way from knowing me well enough to know what to think of me.
But 10 students nominated me for “Teacher of the Month.” That wasn’t enough to win—the winning teacher received more than 60 nominations—but it really is an honor to be nominated, especially when you’re the “new kid” and you do everything a bit differently than any of their other teachers do.
Any teacher who is nominated by students receives all the nomination forms in an envelope, and reading those forms was both humbling and uplifting. Several clearly indicated that the students need some help articulating their thoughts but they were heartfelt, and a few just made my day. One student said, “Because he’s BEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAST!” Two or three others talked about how I helped them understand things they hadn’t understood before, and one said I was “inspiring.” Those nomination forms are treasures.
I’m really lucky; I love my job and I love my students and I love my home. I take some credit for that “luck”—I am the one who made tough decisions and took real risks—but I can’t (and wouldn’t want to) take credit for all of it. Call it what you will—random chance, fate, karma—I call it God.
Last night was the “Welcome Back Dance,” a fundraiser for the Science Club. I was assigned to maintain the perimeter and keep students from going where they shouldn’t. That meant I spent my time outside (a blessing on many counts).
Sunset, shot between the cafeteria on the right (filled with sweaty middle-schoolers dancing madly) and a classroom building on the left:
After the dance, I joined a few staff members at LuLu’s for an after-dance snack (and, for the drinkers, a cocktail or two). Then I met some local scuba divers at Olowalu Beach to try for lobster; the season opened at midnight.
Conditions were’t ideal—entrances and exits at Olowalu are tricky, it was dark despite a gorgeous full “blue” moon and clear skies, the water was a bit turbid, the swim out was long, and we didn’t see a single lobster—but it was still diving on a gorgeous night in gorgeous waters and it was diving! Wait’ll next time!
I got home at about 3:30 AM and fell, exhausted, into bed. Woke up about 8:30 to this view:
...had a ridiculously huge breakfast (per my usual habit), went down to a nearby dive shop to get some information about trips, buddies, gear, and the like, then went to scout out Honolua Bay, a marine preserve that features (among other things) a Honu (Hawai‘ian green sea turtle) colony.
I didn’t get any pictures of honu—my iPhone is a decent camera, but not for shooting protected ocean wildlife in its native habitat—but here are some pictures of the ocean, the sky, and the beach:
It’s Labor Day weekend. Funds are tight (payday is “Po‘akolu” Wednesday), so I’ll stick pretty close to home. My one lengthy excursion will be to church (and to Costco for gas) tomorrow.
No deep insights this week—I’m sure I've had some, but nothing leaps to mind—but just “routine.”
Pretty amazing routine, isn’t it?
I turned 53 on Tuesday. Birthdays have gotten pretty routine; I won’t concern myself overmuch with birthdays, as long as I keep having them. Mine started with a FaceTime conversation with my best friend Wayne, who remains on the mainland. One of my classes sang “Happy Birthday” to me, about as well as you might expect an 8th grade class to sing it, and I treated myself to a burger at Teddy’s Bigger Burger in Lahaiana Gateway:
...but otherwise didn’t do much, and that was fine. I am pleased that at the age of 53, I am as fit and able as I’ve been in probably 20 years. I can keep kidding myself that “I’m not getting older; I’m getting better!” for another year.
This week was “Renaissance” nomination week at Lahaina Intermediate School. Teachers nominate students for a variety of awards relating to academic excellence, character excellence, and improvement in those categories. Teachers also nominate teachers for “Teacher of the Month” awards and students also get to nominate who they consider to be the “Teacher of the Month.”
I’m the “new kid”—I really had no expectations of being nominated by either colleagues or students. It’s a small school, and it is reasonable to assume at a small school that the people who have been there for a while would be favored over a newcomer. I know many students like me, but that does not mean that they ought to nominate me as “Teacher of the Month,” and my colleagues are a long way from knowing me well enough to know what to think of me.
But 10 students nominated me for “Teacher of the Month.” That wasn’t enough to win—the winning teacher received more than 60 nominations—but it really is an honor to be nominated, especially when you’re the “new kid” and you do everything a bit differently than any of their other teachers do.
Any teacher who is nominated by students receives all the nomination forms in an envelope, and reading those forms was both humbling and uplifting. Several clearly indicated that the students need some help articulating their thoughts but they were heartfelt, and a few just made my day. One student said, “Because he’s BEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAST!” Two or three others talked about how I helped them understand things they hadn’t understood before, and one said I was “inspiring.” Those nomination forms are treasures.
I’m really lucky; I love my job and I love my students and I love my home. I take some credit for that “luck”—I am the one who made tough decisions and took real risks—but I can’t (and wouldn’t want to) take credit for all of it. Call it what you will—random chance, fate, karma—I call it God.
Last night was the “Welcome Back Dance,” a fundraiser for the Science Club. I was assigned to maintain the perimeter and keep students from going where they shouldn’t. That meant I spent my time outside (a blessing on many counts).
Sunset, shot between the cafeteria on the right (filled with sweaty middle-schoolers dancing madly) and a classroom building on the left:
After the dance, I joined a few staff members at LuLu’s for an after-dance snack (and, for the drinkers, a cocktail or two). Then I met some local scuba divers at Olowalu Beach to try for lobster; the season opened at midnight.
Conditions were’t ideal—entrances and exits at Olowalu are tricky, it was dark despite a gorgeous full “blue” moon and clear skies, the water was a bit turbid, the swim out was long, and we didn’t see a single lobster—but it was still diving on a gorgeous night in gorgeous waters and it was diving! Wait’ll next time!
I got home at about 3:30 AM and fell, exhausted, into bed. Woke up about 8:30 to this view:
...had a ridiculously huge breakfast (per my usual habit), went down to a nearby dive shop to get some information about trips, buddies, gear, and the like, then went to scout out Honolua Bay, a marine preserve that features (among other things) a Honu (Hawai‘ian green sea turtle) colony.
I didn’t get any pictures of honu—my iPhone is a decent camera, but not for shooting protected ocean wildlife in its native habitat—but here are some pictures of the ocean, the sky, and the beach:
Honolua Bay, looking toward Moloka‘i
Da’ Beach
Just around a promontory; here be Honu!
It’s Labor Day weekend. Funds are tight (payday is “Po‘akolu” Wednesday), so I’ll stick pretty close to home. My one lengthy excursion will be to church (and to Costco for gas) tomorrow.
No deep insights this week—I’m sure I've had some, but nothing leaps to mind—but just “routine.”
Pretty amazing routine, isn’t it?
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Ho, Hum
Ho, hum.
I’ve had breakfast (I’m an early riser even when I don’t have to be) and now I’m lingering over coffee—I might even brew a second pot—looking out at a world as new as the morning sun. In the distance, Moloka‘i looms under a cloud bank and this morning, the sky is more overcast than blue.
It’s a beautiful day.
Every day is a beautiful day, everywhere. Looking back, I see. I didn’t always see it when I was elsewhere, but the new perspective that comes of new life illumines both the present and the past. It was never the day that was ugly; rather, it was my experience, and although sometimes that experience was influenced by the actions of others, the choice to see the experience as ugly was my choice.
I’m not sure I will ever be enlightened enough, wise enough, calm enough to take even difficult experiences and see them as beautiful. I am, however, already wise enough (it doesn’t take much) to see that it's possible.
How lucky I am to have learned this while still (relatively) young! How fortunate that I finally followed my heart to the place I could learn it! How close I came to never knowing; to allowing fear of the unknown to keep me in ignorance!
In some ways living in Hawai‘i feels like living in Mayberry R.F.D. Even in Lahaina, a tourist destination visually dominated by resorts and vacation residences, there’s something “small town” in the air. People greet one another with a smile and a wave. It’s customary to “talk story” when together; to establish and refresh a common context.
Yesterday I rode down to Kihei to open a credit union account. Once again, as in almost every circumstance, I was made to feel welcome and at home. The agents who served me were more than just professionally friendly; I could tell that they took a genuine interest in me. The spirit of “Aloha” is just that—a genuine liking and interest in others.
After opening my account, I decided (apropos nothing much) to ride past Kihei. Eventually, I found myself at Makena State Park and “Big Beach.” Coincidentally, earlier in the morning I’d done an Internet search on “nude beaches on Maui” after a friend inquired, and I’d found mention of a “clothing optional” beach called “Little Beach,” accessible from “Big Beach.”
“Big Beach” is beautiful and big:
I didn’t get a close look at “Little Beach”—I forgot my sunscreen—but it looked quite nice, too:
I wish I’d thought to take a picture of a bumper sticker I saw in the parking lot; it read: “Little Beach: A Great Place to Hang Out.”
I admit I LOL’d.
The lesson that’s unavoidable for me here is simply this: It is possible to live a very human life—one where there is an obligation to treat and a reasonable expectation to be treated with dignity and respect and compassion and “Aloha” (“Love”). It is not only possible but desirable for such a thing to become routine; something that can safely be taken for granted.
No, this isn’t Heaven. Yes, selfishness and cruelty and neglect can still be found here. People can be unkind... What’s different, at least in my experience here, is that here those things are far less common than they were in my prior life. I am learning to expect and assume dignity and respect and compassion and “Aloha.”
Ho, hum.
I’ve had breakfast (I’m an early riser even when I don’t have to be) and now I’m lingering over coffee—I might even brew a second pot—looking out at a world as new as the morning sun. In the distance, Moloka‘i looms under a cloud bank and this morning, the sky is more overcast than blue.
It’s a beautiful day.
Every day is a beautiful day, everywhere. Looking back, I see. I didn’t always see it when I was elsewhere, but the new perspective that comes of new life illumines both the present and the past. It was never the day that was ugly; rather, it was my experience, and although sometimes that experience was influenced by the actions of others, the choice to see the experience as ugly was my choice.
I’m not sure I will ever be enlightened enough, wise enough, calm enough to take even difficult experiences and see them as beautiful. I am, however, already wise enough (it doesn’t take much) to see that it's possible.
How lucky I am to have learned this while still (relatively) young! How fortunate that I finally followed my heart to the place I could learn it! How close I came to never knowing; to allowing fear of the unknown to keep me in ignorance!
In some ways living in Hawai‘i feels like living in Mayberry R.F.D. Even in Lahaina, a tourist destination visually dominated by resorts and vacation residences, there’s something “small town” in the air. People greet one another with a smile and a wave. It’s customary to “talk story” when together; to establish and refresh a common context.
Yesterday I rode down to Kihei to open a credit union account. Once again, as in almost every circumstance, I was made to feel welcome and at home. The agents who served me were more than just professionally friendly; I could tell that they took a genuine interest in me. The spirit of “Aloha” is just that—a genuine liking and interest in others.
After opening my account, I decided (apropos nothing much) to ride past Kihei. Eventually, I found myself at Makena State Park and “Big Beach.” Coincidentally, earlier in the morning I’d done an Internet search on “nude beaches on Maui” after a friend inquired, and I’d found mention of a “clothing optional” beach called “Little Beach,” accessible from “Big Beach.”
“Big Beach” is beautiful and big:
I didn’t get a close look at “Little Beach”—I forgot my sunscreen—but it looked quite nice, too:
I wish I’d thought to take a picture of a bumper sticker I saw in the parking lot; it read: “Little Beach: A Great Place to Hang Out.”
I admit I LOL’d.
The lesson that’s unavoidable for me here is simply this: It is possible to live a very human life—one where there is an obligation to treat and a reasonable expectation to be treated with dignity and respect and compassion and “Aloha” (“Love”). It is not only possible but desirable for such a thing to become routine; something that can safely be taken for granted.
No, this isn’t Heaven. Yes, selfishness and cruelty and neglect can still be found here. People can be unkind... What’s different, at least in my experience here, is that here those things are far less common than they were in my prior life. I am learning to expect and assume dignity and respect and compassion and “Aloha.”
Ho, hum.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Lovin’ Life (part 2)
In part one I wrote a little about the whirlwind inevitable when arriving on-island one week before starting work and less than two weeks before first facing students. Only teachers really know how little time that is to prepare for students, but everyone should understand how little time that is to get settled. There was:
Even so, I managed to get to the water fairly frequently, explore Front Street Lahaina, ride the Harley, take plenty of sun. No matter how busy I was (am!) I always made (make!) time to appreciate where I was (am!) and what I had (have!). And the knots tied in my shoulders by a lifetime of living somewhere I didn’t really belong loosened and eased.
I also like the simplicity of my life here (granted, enforced by budgetary necessity, but still...); living small and within much-reduced means requires a discipline that, surprisingly, is very satisfying, and the ways one lives a fulfilling life with reduced means are themselves quite delightful.
And I absolutely love the “spirit” and personality of this place and it’s indigenous culture, not to mention the routine “eye-popping, jaw-dropping, heart-stopping” beauty of the place itself.
Last Saturday I left my apartment at 3:15 AM to ride up Haleakala to catch the sunrise. I was underdressed (the temperature at the 10,000 foot summit was 45° Fahrenheit) and the ride up included mist and drizzle), but the spectacle was worth freezing for.
The weekend before school started, I caught the final performance of a Maui on Stage production of The Producers, and it was wonderful. Most Sundays I attend a little house church congregation of my denomination, Community of Christ, and the members are precious and dear. Last Sunday I saw a community-based performance of Haydn’s Creation (my pastor sang in the chorus), and it was beautiful.
Among the myriad coolnesses is the rediscovery and reinvention of myself as a teacher. This massive upheaval has sparked something, I know not what, in me. I’m excited again, ambitious again, idealistic again. And I like feeling this way about my job. I’m proud of some of the changes I’ve made in grading, in assessment, in practice. And I feel appreciated, not just by one or two or a few colleagues, but by the majority of the staff. Better than gold, let me tell you (although gold would be nice, too!).
There is a profound, positive power in reaching for the brass ring. There is always the possibility that you’ll miss, maybe fall. But if you won’t reach for it, there is no possibility that it will end up in your hand.
There is a profound, positive power in disruption. Nothing stirs my creative juices like absolute uncertainty, and I think that, for the many who feel trapped in their circumstances (I’m looking at you, unnamed Eastside colleague!), the terrifying act of breaking out yields powerful dividends and amazing discoveries.
In three days, I turn 53. But in another way—maybe the most important way—I’m only two months old; a newborn, brimming with unformed, endless potential.
- a lease to sign
- a change of address to file
- 100 pounds of luggage to unpack
- groceries to buy and a kitchen to stock (and find the best prices)
- basic school supplies to acquire
- a contract packet to complete
Even so, I managed to get to the water fairly frequently, explore Front Street Lahaina, ride the Harley, take plenty of sun. No matter how busy I was (am!) I always made (make!) time to appreciate where I was (am!) and what I had (have!). And the knots tied in my shoulders by a lifetime of living somewhere I didn’t really belong loosened and eased.
Let me explain what I just said: I don’t want any of my beloved friends or family to think I grudge one minute spent in their company or doing what I did on the mainland. The people I love and the time I spent and the things I did on the mainland—relationally, educationally, theatrically, socially, etc.—are time and effort that made me who I am, and I like me. I’m glad I lived where I lived and did what I did...but after just a couple of weeks of living here it’s clear; I am not made for mainland living. I didn’t belong.Since starting school, the sense of rightness has doubled and redoubled. I like my students; I was worried at first, since my memories of teaching middle school were not that pleasant, but somehow over the years I forgot the upside, and these kids are (mostly) just plain delightful.
I also like the simplicity of my life here (granted, enforced by budgetary necessity, but still...); living small and within much-reduced means requires a discipline that, surprisingly, is very satisfying, and the ways one lives a fulfilling life with reduced means are themselves quite delightful.
And I absolutely love the “spirit” and personality of this place and it’s indigenous culture, not to mention the routine “eye-popping, jaw-dropping, heart-stopping” beauty of the place itself.
Last Saturday I left my apartment at 3:15 AM to ride up Haleakala to catch the sunrise. I was underdressed (the temperature at the 10,000 foot summit was 45° Fahrenheit) and the ride up included mist and drizzle), but the spectacle was worth freezing for.
The weekend before school started, I caught the final performance of a Maui on Stage production of The Producers, and it was wonderful. Most Sundays I attend a little house church congregation of my denomination, Community of Christ, and the members are precious and dear. Last Sunday I saw a community-based performance of Haydn’s Creation (my pastor sang in the chorus), and it was beautiful.
Among the myriad coolnesses is the rediscovery and reinvention of myself as a teacher. This massive upheaval has sparked something, I know not what, in me. I’m excited again, ambitious again, idealistic again. And I like feeling this way about my job. I’m proud of some of the changes I’ve made in grading, in assessment, in practice. And I feel appreciated, not just by one or two or a few colleagues, but by the majority of the staff. Better than gold, let me tell you (although gold would be nice, too!).
There is a profound, positive power in reaching for the brass ring. There is always the possibility that you’ll miss, maybe fall. But if you won’t reach for it, there is no possibility that it will end up in your hand.
There is a profound, positive power in disruption. Nothing stirs my creative juices like absolute uncertainty, and I think that, for the many who feel trapped in their circumstances (I’m looking at you, unnamed Eastside colleague!), the terrifying act of breaking out yields powerful dividends and amazing discoveries.
In three days, I turn 53. But in another way—maybe the most important way—I’m only two months old; a newborn, brimming with unformed, endless potential.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Lovin’ Life
First, an apology. I’ve been away for a long time. Sometimes living the adventure interferes with writing about it (and sometimes I’m just lazy).
The last time I posted, I was still on Oʻahu. I didn’t have a home, I hadn’t seen my school, my motorcycle was still in transit... The last time I posted was a lifetime ago. So much to share!
I flew from Oʻahu to Maui on July 9, 2012, to pick up my Harley and look for a place to live. Getting the Harley was pretty painless (and what a delight to ride on Maui!), finding a place was...well, let’s just say it wasn’t quite painless. It isn’t that it was necessarily difficult to find a place; rather, it was difficult to imagine paying what was asked for a place. Nothing too surprising, except that it’s surprising even when you think you’re prepared.
I did find a place, just 10 miles north of the school in Napili; a 380 square foot fully-furnished second-story studio with a view of Molokaʻi for roughly 90% of what my mortgage in Lancaster was. It’s up the hill, half a mile walk to Napili Bay and beach, and it’s lovely. Every morning as I sit eating breakfast, the sun rises behind the building and lights up Molokaʻi (past the trees and under the clouds):
After applying to rent the condo, on July 10, 2012, I parked the Harley in the Lahaina Intermediate School wood shop, took the bus from Lahaina back to Kahului, and flew back to Oʻahu enjoy the remainder of my vacation, graciously hosted by Joyce and Holly. Good food, good views, good times...
On July 17, 2012, I again flew from Oʻahu to Maui, this time to stay. Church friends met me at the airport and took me to the school to get the Harley, then took my luggage to the condo. With 7 days until the first teacher in-service day and just 13 days before students arrived on-campus, I keenly felt the pressure of passing time and tried to make the most of the freedom I knew would be fleeting.
I went snorkeling:
I looked at rainbows:
I watched the sun set over Molokaʻi:
I visited the school:
And all too soon (and not soon enough) school started; July 30, 2012.
(to be continued)
The last time I posted, I was still on Oʻahu. I didn’t have a home, I hadn’t seen my school, my motorcycle was still in transit... The last time I posted was a lifetime ago. So much to share!
I flew from Oʻahu to Maui on July 9, 2012, to pick up my Harley and look for a place to live. Getting the Harley was pretty painless (and what a delight to ride on Maui!), finding a place was...well, let’s just say it wasn’t quite painless. It isn’t that it was necessarily difficult to find a place; rather, it was difficult to imagine paying what was asked for a place. Nothing too surprising, except that it’s surprising even when you think you’re prepared.
I did find a place, just 10 miles north of the school in Napili; a 380 square foot fully-furnished second-story studio with a view of Molokaʻi for roughly 90% of what my mortgage in Lancaster was. It’s up the hill, half a mile walk to Napili Bay and beach, and it’s lovely. Every morning as I sit eating breakfast, the sun rises behind the building and lights up Molokaʻi (past the trees and under the clouds):
After applying to rent the condo, on July 10, 2012, I parked the Harley in the Lahaina Intermediate School wood shop, took the bus from Lahaina back to Kahului, and flew back to Oʻahu enjoy the remainder of my vacation, graciously hosted by Joyce and Holly. Good food, good views, good times...
On July 17, 2012, I again flew from Oʻahu to Maui, this time to stay. Church friends met me at the airport and took me to the school to get the Harley, then took my luggage to the condo. With 7 days until the first teacher in-service day and just 13 days before students arrived on-campus, I keenly felt the pressure of passing time and tried to make the most of the freedom I knew would be fleeting.
I went snorkeling:
I looked at rainbows:
I watched the sun set over Molokaʻi:
I visited the school:
And all too soon (and not soon enough) school started; July 30, 2012.
(to be continued)
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Prelude
Today I attempted to apply for a Hawai‘i driver’s license—no dice—and successfully registered my firearm. It turns out one is more difficult than the other, and although Hawai‘i is widely (and legitimately) considered to be unfriendly territory with respect to Second Amendment issues, firearm registration was not the difficult one.
There’s been a change in state law with respect to driver’s licenses, recently: individuals must present an original (or a copy certified by the agency that issued the original) birth certificate and a Social Security card. Based on the cited law, I think it’s intended to ensure that a Hawai‘i driver’s license is only issued to individuals whose immigration status is “legal,” but I don’t really know. I only know that I do not currently have in my possession either a birth certificate or a Social Security card.
In order to register my firearm—a Kimber Compact Pro Carry 2 chambered in .45 ACP—all I had to do was fill out an application, show my California driver’s license, be fingerprinted, and have my background checked. They didn’t even charge a fee! Granted, it was easier for me because I brought the pistol into the state rather than acquiring it in-state, but still I find it ironic; I can register a firearm more easily than I can acquire a driver’s license.
I’ve requested a new Social Security card and Mom’s sending me a hopefully-adequate certified copy of my birth certificate, so with any luck I’ll be able to take care of the driver’s license on Maui. The firearms registration was the most urgent of the tasks attempted; the law requires a firearm brought into the state be presented and registered within 72 hours of its arrival; I only had one more day to get ’er done.
I also visited the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific:
The words carved under this figure read, “The solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.” A sober reminder both of how sacred is true liberty, and how costly. This figure looks out at Diamondhead:
I couldn’t frame Diamondhead any better; the iPhone camera is good, but limited. I would very much have appreciated a choice of lenses. Still, beautiful...
The rear wall, engraved with “In proud remembrance of the achievements of her sons and in humble tribute to their sacrifices this memorial has been erected by the United States of America: 1941-1945 • 1950-1953 • 1961-1973.”
I found this monument incredibly moving. The cemetery, wonderfully situated in the “Punchbowl” overlooking Diamondhead, is beautifully kept and serene, and a spirit of solemn gravity pervades the place.
This visit is an appropriate prelude to tomorrow’s trip to the Arizona Memorial.
There’s been a change in state law with respect to driver’s licenses, recently: individuals must present an original (or a copy certified by the agency that issued the original) birth certificate and a Social Security card. Based on the cited law, I think it’s intended to ensure that a Hawai‘i driver’s license is only issued to individuals whose immigration status is “legal,” but I don’t really know. I only know that I do not currently have in my possession either a birth certificate or a Social Security card.
In order to register my firearm—a Kimber Compact Pro Carry 2 chambered in .45 ACP—all I had to do was fill out an application, show my California driver’s license, be fingerprinted, and have my background checked. They didn’t even charge a fee! Granted, it was easier for me because I brought the pistol into the state rather than acquiring it in-state, but still I find it ironic; I can register a firearm more easily than I can acquire a driver’s license.
I’ve requested a new Social Security card and Mom’s sending me a hopefully-adequate certified copy of my birth certificate, so with any luck I’ll be able to take care of the driver’s license on Maui. The firearms registration was the most urgent of the tasks attempted; the law requires a firearm brought into the state be presented and registered within 72 hours of its arrival; I only had one more day to get ’er done.
I also visited the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific:
The words carved under this figure read, “The solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.” A sober reminder both of how sacred is true liberty, and how costly. This figure looks out at Diamondhead:
I couldn’t frame Diamondhead any better; the iPhone camera is good, but limited. I would very much have appreciated a choice of lenses. Still, beautiful...
Behind the figure is a chapel:
The altar
The rear wall, engraved with “In proud remembrance of the achievements of her sons and in humble tribute to their sacrifices this memorial has been erected by the United States of America: 1941-1945 • 1950-1953 • 1961-1973.”
I found this monument incredibly moving. The cemetery, wonderfully situated in the “Punchbowl” overlooking Diamondhead, is beautifully kept and serene, and a spirit of solemn gravity pervades the place.
This visit is an appropriate prelude to tomorrow’s trip to the Arizona Memorial.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
It's a Little Thing, Really...
...only not really.
(I meant to write last night, but instead spent the evening getting my checked bags under 50 pounds each. It would seem I should also have paid attention to the weight of my carry-on—it was 3 pounds heavier than allowed—luckily, the ticket agent let me slide.)
I’m aboard Hawai‘ian Airlines flight HA 3. At the moment I wrote this sentence, we’re about 300 miles out of Los Angeles and 2,300 miles from Honolulu. I feel like an actor offstage between scenes; “...what’s past is prologue,” as Antonio said in The Tempest, and what’s to come is in my discharge.
What’s past is much on my mind, today. My best friend Wayne and his wife (a great good friend) accompanied Mom and me to the airport this morning to see me off. After 12 years treading one path together, Wayne’s path and mine diverge today, and that is a poignant, melancholy truth. Not that we’ll never see one another again—not that we won’t always be friends and collaborators—still, it cannot be denied that this changes things.
Strangely, parting with Mom was easier. I don’t really know why—I love Mom and will certainly miss her—yet somehow it was less difficult to say &ledquo;Aloha” to her.
The last time I looked back before turning my gaze forward (to the TSA check station, and not, alas, toward some “trackless horizon”), all three—Wayne, Margaret, and Mom—had their “game faces” on, and I was wearing mine, too. I didn’t look back after that, though; I thought that a blubbering grown man might look a bit suspicious to the TSA agent, and I knew that one more glance and that would be all she wrote.
Now I am on my way. What’s past is prologue—important and meaningful and never to be dismissed or diminished—my task is to build on it; to build a life worthy of who and what has gone before.
I am, in fact, looking forward toward a metaphorical “trackless horizon”—I am, in fact, facing the most exciting adventure of my life—and I am well aware of how lucky I am to have the family and friends I have; people who have my back and who sometimes heroically support me on my journey, though it cost them dearly.
I can never say mahalo (“Thank you”) enough.
Once I arrive, I’ll immediately apply for my Hawai‘i driver’s license. I’ll get better acquainted with my gracious hosts. I’ll explore O‘ahu for a few days with them as my guides. I’ll take plenty of pictures. I’ll begin the process of making a new life in a new place with new friends and new possibilities...but I will never forget those whose friendships will always be a part of me. This is a change, not an ending.
Aloha is not merely “hello” and “goodbye”—it is love and affection and esteem and compassion and caring. It is a spirit that reminds me of a Hindi greeting: Namasté. Namasté can be understood as, “The Divine in me recognizes and greets the Divine in you.” When The Divine greets the Divine, goodness flows. That is what the Aloha Spirit has always been to me; goodness and good will flowing from person to person. That is why the Islands have been calling me. It is that about Island culture that beguiled me long since.
I don’t know very much about what’s going to happen. I know what island I will live and work on, at least this year. I know at least generally what my job will be. I know the climate will be mild and the scenery beautiful. I know the ocean, my mistress, will be always near. And that’s about it. I don’t know more specifically where I’ll be living or who I’ll meet or just how I’ll spend my free time. I don’t know much of anything at all; don’t even know who I’ll become.
Not knowing is the best part. I’ve challenged the universe: “Surprise me!”
I just filled out the standard form everyone flying into Hawai’i must complete before landing. Always before, I’ve marked “I am a Visitor to Hawai‘i” but this time is different. This time I marked “I am a Intended resident moving to Hawai’i for at least one year.”
It’s a little thing, really...only not really.
(I meant to write last night, but instead spent the evening getting my checked bags under 50 pounds each. It would seem I should also have paid attention to the weight of my carry-on—it was 3 pounds heavier than allowed—luckily, the ticket agent let me slide.)
I’m aboard Hawai‘ian Airlines flight HA 3. At the moment I wrote this sentence, we’re about 300 miles out of Los Angeles and 2,300 miles from Honolulu. I feel like an actor offstage between scenes; “...what’s past is prologue,” as Antonio said in The Tempest, and what’s to come is in my discharge.
What’s past is much on my mind, today. My best friend Wayne and his wife (a great good friend) accompanied Mom and me to the airport this morning to see me off. After 12 years treading one path together, Wayne’s path and mine diverge today, and that is a poignant, melancholy truth. Not that we’ll never see one another again—not that we won’t always be friends and collaborators—still, it cannot be denied that this changes things.
Strangely, parting with Mom was easier. I don’t really know why—I love Mom and will certainly miss her—yet somehow it was less difficult to say &ledquo;Aloha” to her.
The last time I looked back before turning my gaze forward (to the TSA check station, and not, alas, toward some “trackless horizon”), all three—Wayne, Margaret, and Mom—had their “game faces” on, and I was wearing mine, too. I didn’t look back after that, though; I thought that a blubbering grown man might look a bit suspicious to the TSA agent, and I knew that one more glance and that would be all she wrote.
Now I am on my way. What’s past is prologue—important and meaningful and never to be dismissed or diminished—my task is to build on it; to build a life worthy of who and what has gone before.
I am, in fact, looking forward toward a metaphorical “trackless horizon”—I am, in fact, facing the most exciting adventure of my life—and I am well aware of how lucky I am to have the family and friends I have; people who have my back and who sometimes heroically support me on my journey, though it cost them dearly.
I can never say mahalo (“Thank you”) enough.
Once I arrive, I’ll immediately apply for my Hawai‘i driver’s license. I’ll get better acquainted with my gracious hosts. I’ll explore O‘ahu for a few days with them as my guides. I’ll take plenty of pictures. I’ll begin the process of making a new life in a new place with new friends and new possibilities...but I will never forget those whose friendships will always be a part of me. This is a change, not an ending.
Aloha is not merely “hello” and “goodbye”—it is love and affection and esteem and compassion and caring. It is a spirit that reminds me of a Hindi greeting: Namasté. Namasté can be understood as, “The Divine in me recognizes and greets the Divine in you.” When The Divine greets the Divine, goodness flows. That is what the Aloha Spirit has always been to me; goodness and good will flowing from person to person. That is why the Islands have been calling me. It is that about Island culture that beguiled me long since.
I don’t know very much about what’s going to happen. I know what island I will live and work on, at least this year. I know at least generally what my job will be. I know the climate will be mild and the scenery beautiful. I know the ocean, my mistress, will be always near. And that’s about it. I don’t know more specifically where I’ll be living or who I’ll meet or just how I’ll spend my free time. I don’t know much of anything at all; don’t even know who I’ll become.
Not knowing is the best part. I’ve challenged the universe: “Surprise me!”
I just filled out the standard form everyone flying into Hawai’i must complete before landing. Always before, I’ve marked “I am a Visitor to Hawai‘i” but this time is different. This time I marked “I am a Intended resident moving to Hawai’i for at least one year.”
It’s a little thing, really...only not really.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Illusions
The universe is a funny place, and even funnier since the advent of social media. For example, I have 868 “friends” on my Facebook “friends list” (don’t look at me that way! I know almost all of them “in real life”). Granted, not all of them appear in my feed, but quite a number of them do, and therefore many silly, sentimental, faux-inspirational, sometimes inauthentic quotes, aphorisms, and sayings cross before my eyes on a daily basis.
The same is true of my Twitter feed (and less true of Google+ just because I’ve encircled different people who use the service differently), but everywhere I turn I’m inundated with “sayings,” most of dubious provenance. And yet...
And yet, I frequently find gems among the dross, and sometimes the inauthentic or misattributed quotes are as bright and beautiful as the authentic and accurate ones.
What’s more (and what prompted this blog entry), a surprising number of those gems are absolutely apropos to what I’m going through right now.
This journey, as previously discussed, has been a voyage of discovery and development and growth. I’ve been stretched and exercised and challenged, and the lessons just keep coming. That’s a good thing—in fact, it’s a great thing—and I think what’s happening is that I’m unconsciously attuned to the lessons I’m learning, so when a quote or aphorism addresses those lessons, it grabs my attention. Take two items that crossed my view just this morning:
None of us really has much control at all. None of us has much influence on the future. We are responsible for our choices, and our choices have some effect, but much of what we experience is completely beyond our control.
That isn’t a very comfortable reality, so most of us, for most of our lives, reject it. We create a fantasy in which we are masters of our destiny, and that fantasy has value; because we believe it, we work hard to make things turn out the way we want them to. Without it, many would be tempted to lives of passivity, being acted upon but never acting.
I think it’s good to act on our own behalf—to do what we can to create the outcome we want—but I am learning to accept that what I can do is only part of how things turn out. I’m learning to embrace uncertainty and surprise as inevitable, unavoidable, and even desirable.
I won’t stop striving for outcomes I value—I deserve a good outcome, and those I touch deserve my best efforts on their behalf—but at the same time I must accept that many things are beyond my control. I must learn to play the hand I’m dealt, eat the meal I’m served, adapt to circumstances as they are.
There’s real value in the Serenity Prayer, and not just in the familiar first stanza:
And if we continue through the Serenity Prayer, and not just the familiar first stanza, what do we find? A challenge to take “this sinful world as it is” (emphasis mine), and not as we would have it.
As so many of us like to say, “It is what it is,” which is to say it accomplishes nothing to bust our heads against an immovable rock. Yes, we should have courage to change the things we can (and should), but we need wisdom to know and accept the things we cannot change.
To give up the illusion of control is not the same as: “Since I gave up hope, I feel a lot better.” Hope is not superfluous. Hope counterbalances cynicism, and without hope wisdom fails. For me a better phrase—one more in keeping with the lessons I’m learning— would be:
The same is true of my Twitter feed (and less true of Google+ just because I’ve encircled different people who use the service differently), but everywhere I turn I’m inundated with “sayings,” most of dubious provenance. And yet...
And yet, I frequently find gems among the dross, and sometimes the inauthentic or misattributed quotes are as bright and beautiful as the authentic and accurate ones.
What’s more (and what prompted this blog entry), a surprising number of those gems are absolutely apropos to what I’m going through right now.
This journey, as previously discussed, has been a voyage of discovery and development and growth. I’ve been stretched and exercised and challenged, and the lessons just keep coming. That’s a good thing—in fact, it’s a great thing—and I think what’s happening is that I’m unconsciously attuned to the lessons I’m learning, so when a quote or aphorism addresses those lessons, it grabs my attention. Take two items that crossed my view just this morning:
- “I have no idea what’s going to happen, and I love it.” Unattributed
- “Life is a series of surprises, and would not be worth taking or keeping if it were not.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
None of us really has much control at all. None of us has much influence on the future. We are responsible for our choices, and our choices have some effect, but much of what we experience is completely beyond our control.
That isn’t a very comfortable reality, so most of us, for most of our lives, reject it. We create a fantasy in which we are masters of our destiny, and that fantasy has value; because we believe it, we work hard to make things turn out the way we want them to. Without it, many would be tempted to lives of passivity, being acted upon but never acting.
I think it’s good to act on our own behalf—to do what we can to create the outcome we want—but I am learning to accept that what I can do is only part of how things turn out. I’m learning to embrace uncertainty and surprise as inevitable, unavoidable, and even desirable.
I won’t stop striving for outcomes I value—I deserve a good outcome, and those I touch deserve my best efforts on their behalf—but at the same time I must accept that many things are beyond my control. I must learn to play the hand I’m dealt, eat the meal I’m served, adapt to circumstances as they are.
There’s real value in the Serenity Prayer, and not just in the familiar first stanza:
God grant me the serenityThe first idea is perhaps the most difficult for those of us raised in Western culture. We have come to believe the myth that there is nothing we cannot change, but reality is not affected by what we believe. If we can learn to accept the things we cannot change (without abdicating responsibility for the things we can), we will find serenity; often that which frustrates us is the belief that we can control something we really can’t.
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.
—Reinhold Niebuhr
And if we continue through the Serenity Prayer, and not just the familiar first stanza, what do we find? A challenge to take “this sinful world as it is” (emphasis mine), and not as we would have it.
As so many of us like to say, “It is what it is,” which is to say it accomplishes nothing to bust our heads against an immovable rock. Yes, we should have courage to change the things we can (and should), but we need wisdom to know and accept the things we cannot change.
To give up the illusion of control is not the same as: “Since I gave up hope, I feel a lot better.” Hope is not superfluous. Hope counterbalances cynicism, and without hope wisdom fails. For me a better phrase—one more in keeping with the lessons I’m learning— would be:
“Since I gave up (the illusion of) control, I feel a lot happier.”
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Crunch Time
Won’t be posting anything too deep this morning; it’s down to crunch time. I have two rooms to finish clearing and five rooms to start cleaning. I think it’s going to go pretty fast today...but I’ve been wrong before.
I’ve got a few appointments left: chiropractor this morning and doctor Monday.
I have important social engagements, too: dinner at the Hess residence tonight, Spamalot tomorrow night, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Saturday night, and Berry Bunch time Sunday.
Tuesday at 6:00 AM, I leave for the airport, accompanied by Mom and the Berrys.
Where’d the time go?
I’ve got a few appointments left: chiropractor this morning and doctor Monday.
I have important social engagements, too: dinner at the Hess residence tonight, Spamalot tomorrow night, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Saturday night, and Berry Bunch time Sunday.
Tuesday at 6:00 AM, I leave for the airport, accompanied by Mom and the Berrys.
Where’d the time go?
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Boundaries
It’s interesting how the world works. We start with limitless potential and possibility. Over time, our decisions create the context of our lives, including boundaries and restrictions. Our possibilities are bounded by those boundaries and restrictions. And there’s nothing wrong with boundaries and restrictions; they are necessary components of our lives. Without them, we might never know any sense of security.
What happens, though, is that we sometimes lose sight of the fact that we’ve created a context that includes boundaries and restrictions; we think that the context we’ve made is all that there is. We are blinded by the choices we’ve made.
Then something happens and we make new decisions—sometimes just one new decision—that obliterate those boundaries we’ve stopped noticing and we find ourselves faced once again with limitless potential and possibility.
That’s what happened to me this year. I had made choices—good choices, choices I was happy with—and over time those choices and the choices that derived from them and the choices that came after that created a (really, pretty great) world, but one past the end of which I couldn’t see.
Then something happened that exploded that world, and suddenly I was faced with limitless potential and possibility.
And it was scary.
It was scary, but it was also exciting. It was exhilarating. It was like taking off a pair of too-tight shoes at the end of the day; I’d stopped noticing how tight they were until my feet were free.
If I wasn’t going to stay where I was, I could go anywhere. Anywhere! The whole world opened up before me!
It was awesome.
Then I began making decisions. It isn’t possible to go “anywhere”—one has to choose a single place. I considered many places—North Carolina, Idaho, Washington, Utah, Hungary, the Middle East—but my heart was inexorably drawn to Hawai‘i, and once I decided that was where I intended to be, my scope narrowed.
I’ve had to stay flexible, of course—since it’s impossible to be fully self-sufficient, my decisions have been predicated on circumstances as well as my own desires and intentions—but each decision has defined a new context and begun creating a new world. Just Tuesday I decided to accept an employment offer, which more sharply defines the new boundaries of my new world.
I will teach 8th grade English/Language Arts at Lahaina Intermediate School in Lahaiana on Maui.
This decision dictates:
so many aspects of temporal existence. Some things are possible, but without changing this decision, other things are not.
That’s okay. That’s the consequence of free will; every decision opens up some possibilities and closes off others.
It’s a new world, different than the one I am leaving, but both are largely of my making, and while I’m going to miss much of my old life, I’m excited to discover what unexpected opportunities and challenges this new world has for me.
What happens, though, is that we sometimes lose sight of the fact that we’ve created a context that includes boundaries and restrictions; we think that the context we’ve made is all that there is. We are blinded by the choices we’ve made.
Then something happens and we make new decisions—sometimes just one new decision—that obliterate those boundaries we’ve stopped noticing and we find ourselves faced once again with limitless potential and possibility.
That’s what happened to me this year. I had made choices—good choices, choices I was happy with—and over time those choices and the choices that derived from them and the choices that came after that created a (really, pretty great) world, but one past the end of which I couldn’t see.
Then something happened that exploded that world, and suddenly I was faced with limitless potential and possibility.
And it was scary.
It was scary, but it was also exciting. It was exhilarating. It was like taking off a pair of too-tight shoes at the end of the day; I’d stopped noticing how tight they were until my feet were free.
If I wasn’t going to stay where I was, I could go anywhere. Anywhere! The whole world opened up before me!
It was awesome.
Then I began making decisions. It isn’t possible to go “anywhere”—one has to choose a single place. I considered many places—North Carolina, Idaho, Washington, Utah, Hungary, the Middle East—but my heart was inexorably drawn to Hawai‘i, and once I decided that was where I intended to be, my scope narrowed.
I’ve had to stay flexible, of course—since it’s impossible to be fully self-sufficient, my decisions have been predicated on circumstances as well as my own desires and intentions—but each decision has defined a new context and begun creating a new world. Just Tuesday I decided to accept an employment offer, which more sharply defines the new boundaries of my new world.
I will teach 8th grade English/Language Arts at Lahaina Intermediate School in Lahaiana on Maui.
This decision dictates:
- who I’ll meet
- where I look for a home (Lahaina, Kā‘anapali, Wailuka, Kihei)
- how much I pay for a home
- where I get a post office box
- what it will cost to insure my motorcycle
- what activities I’ll be able to engage in
- how I approach my job
- what I do outside my job
- how often I go to church and where
so many aspects of temporal existence. Some things are possible, but without changing this decision, other things are not.
That’s okay. That’s the consequence of free will; every decision opens up some possibilities and closes off others.
It’s a new world, different than the one I am leaving, but both are largely of my making, and while I’m going to miss much of my old life, I’m excited to discover what unexpected opportunities and challenges this new world has for me.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
FYI
It’s time, I think, to suggest ways the handful of faithful readers can keep track of this sometimes-irregular blog (without being utterly dependent on seeing my “share”), and time also to plead for a little interaction.
I know people are reading—Blogger provides viewing statistics—so let me suggest that if you find this blog generally worth your time, you “subscribe” to it or add it to Google Reader. That way you’ll be notified whenever I post something new, and won’t risk missing a word of deathless prose. Yes, I write for me, but I publish for you, and I wouldn’t want you to miss a thing. So subscribe; then you don’t have to expend any effort.
Also, since you are reading, I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to comment: respond, make suggestions, share a piece of your story, correct my spelling (thank you, Evan!)... All I ask is that you keep it civil.
That would be cool...
I know people are reading—Blogger provides viewing statistics—so let me suggest that if you find this blog generally worth your time, you “subscribe” to it or add it to Google Reader. That way you’ll be notified whenever I post something new, and won’t risk missing a word of deathless prose. Yes, I write for me, but I publish for you, and I wouldn’t want you to miss a thing. So subscribe; then you don’t have to expend any effort.
Also, since you are reading, I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to comment: respond, make suggestions, share a piece of your story, correct my spelling (thank you, Evan!)... All I ask is that you keep it civil.
That would be cool...
Saturday, June 23, 2012
I’ve Been Wrong About “wrong” Before
I had two phone interviews this week—one Tuesday and the other Wednesday—and I’ve already heard back from both schools. One elected to hire someone else, and the other offered me a position. The one that offered me a position would like me to respond by Wednesday. Good news! I won’t be unemployed when I move to Hawai`i!
I’m probably going to wait until pretty close to Wednesday to respond—while the odds don’t look great, it’s possible that another school or two will be interested in what I have to offer and I do have some (minor) qualms about the position offered—but barring the unforeseen I now know where I'm going.
It’s exciting! More exciting than I was really looking for, in fact...
You see, all my plans so far have been predicated on the hope that I’d find a position on O‘ahu. It’s the most developed island with the largest population, so (I reasoned) it was the place most likely to have the most opportunities. It made sense to me, at any rate.
I have other reasons for hoping that something on O‘ahu would come through. There’s a good-sized church family there, which would provide great support. And it’s the island my brother has to live on when he moves to Hawai‘i (in the next half year or so). We’ve been plotting to room together, and since we both do many of the same things and have many of the same interests—scuba diving, hiking, swimming, stand-up paddleboarding, kayaking, etc.—being on the same island would give each of us a ready partner for the active life we both love.
But I have an offer.
It’s the “wrong” island, the “wrong” grade level, and the “wrong” subject...and unless something better (a lot better) comes along in the next four days, I’m going to accept it with enthusiasm and love the heck out of it, welcoming the challenges it bears with it.
Maybe it’s for the best; maybe it’s for my best. Maui may be the “wrong” island, but it is beautiful and wonderful—it’s got forests and beaches and a really great outdoors overall. 8th grade may be the “wrong” grade level, but there are marvelous opportunities to make a real difference in the lives of 8th graders. And English may be the “wrong” subject, but I do love it, and I’ve known all along that it was unlikely I’d find a position teaching the “right” one. And (more to the point) if I go there I wouldn’t have much of a support network at all.
Maybe that’s what I need. I’ve said before that among the virtues of this adventure are the risks I have to take. Maybe O‘ahu is too easy. Maybe what I really need is to go "all in" and face the world alone.
It isn’t as if I’ll be completely alone, after all; There are a few church members on Maui, and I’ll have coworkers who I hope will become friends. And family and friends are always available via social network, email, and phone. But maybe the real adventure is going into a place where I have very few connections—too few to weave a safety net—and find my path; find myself.
Maybe the “wrong” island, the “wrong” grade level, and the “wrong” subject are just what I need. I’m open to the possibility...
I’ve been wrong about “wrong” before.
I’m probably going to wait until pretty close to Wednesday to respond—while the odds don’t look great, it’s possible that another school or two will be interested in what I have to offer and I do have some (minor) qualms about the position offered—but barring the unforeseen I now know where I'm going.
It’s exciting! More exciting than I was really looking for, in fact...
You see, all my plans so far have been predicated on the hope that I’d find a position on O‘ahu. It’s the most developed island with the largest population, so (I reasoned) it was the place most likely to have the most opportunities. It made sense to me, at any rate.
I have other reasons for hoping that something on O‘ahu would come through. There’s a good-sized church family there, which would provide great support. And it’s the island my brother has to live on when he moves to Hawai‘i (in the next half year or so). We’ve been plotting to room together, and since we both do many of the same things and have many of the same interests—scuba diving, hiking, swimming, stand-up paddleboarding, kayaking, etc.—being on the same island would give each of us a ready partner for the active life we both love.
But I have an offer.
It’s the “wrong” island, the “wrong” grade level, and the “wrong” subject...and unless something better (a lot better) comes along in the next four days, I’m going to accept it with enthusiasm and love the heck out of it, welcoming the challenges it bears with it.
Maybe it’s for the best; maybe it’s for my best. Maui may be the “wrong” island, but it is beautiful and wonderful—it’s got forests and beaches and a really great outdoors overall. 8th grade may be the “wrong” grade level, but there are marvelous opportunities to make a real difference in the lives of 8th graders. And English may be the “wrong” subject, but I do love it, and I’ve known all along that it was unlikely I’d find a position teaching the “right” one. And (more to the point) if I go there I wouldn’t have much of a support network at all.
Maybe that’s what I need. I’ve said before that among the virtues of this adventure are the risks I have to take. Maybe O‘ahu is too easy. Maybe what I really need is to go "all in" and face the world alone.
It isn’t as if I’ll be completely alone, after all; There are a few church members on Maui, and I’ll have coworkers who I hope will become friends. And family and friends are always available via social network, email, and phone. But maybe the real adventure is going into a place where I have very few connections—too few to weave a safety net—and find my path; find myself.
Maybe the “wrong” island, the “wrong” grade level, and the “wrong” subject are just what I need. I’m open to the possibility...
I’ve been wrong about “wrong” before.
Serenity
This morning I said goodbye to my sister Karen, my brother-in-law Michael, and my niece Madison. It was a wonderful visit—we celebrated Madison’s birthday (twice!), I got to share in the moment as my sister’s sensory world opened up after fifteen years of invisible-but-very-real limits, I shared some quality time with other friends in the Rocklin area—and it’s the last time for many of those things.
For many years, now, I’ve been able to travel up to Rocklin at least a couple of times a year to visit, and Karen, Michael, and Madison have been able to travel down to the Antelope Valley at least a couple of times a year to visit Mom and me. With me moving to Hawai‘i, visits become much less frequent. It’s not going to be possible for any of us to make a (relatively) casual trip to see the others. I imagine that once I’m settled I’ll occasionally visit the Mainland, but once a year is as good as it will get and it may not get that good for a long time. Who knows when I’ll see my Rocklin friends (or Lucy or Bailey, the family dogs) again?
I’ll see Karen, Michael, and Madison once a year, probably; the traditional Hawai‘i vacation will continue and for me, they’ll be cheaper than they've been in the past. But once a year is not the same as four or more times a year. It’s the end of an era.
It’s another “last.”
For the most part, I don’t really like these lasts. (The few I have liked I’ve mostly kept to myself.) Endings, of traditions or habits or regular contact or normal practices, are hard. Some are harder than others...
Farewells are hard. Reduced contact with loved ones (family, friends, respected colleagues) is hard. Change is hard, and the more it changes things we value, the harder it is.
But change is also inevitable, and sometimes choosing the change brings some comfort. I chose this change (and I’m sorry that it leaves some of you with no choice; I’m well aware that by choosing this change I’ve imposed unwelcome changes on you), and that helps me face the pain.
If I seem serene, I am. If I seem unaffected, I’m not. I’m deeply affected. My serenity is the product of a great deal of agonizing over my choices and my decision to “seize the day.” This choice is remaking me, and I’m not gonna lie; that’s among its attractions.
For many years, now, I’ve been able to travel up to Rocklin at least a couple of times a year to visit, and Karen, Michael, and Madison have been able to travel down to the Antelope Valley at least a couple of times a year to visit Mom and me. With me moving to Hawai‘i, visits become much less frequent. It’s not going to be possible for any of us to make a (relatively) casual trip to see the others. I imagine that once I’m settled I’ll occasionally visit the Mainland, but once a year is as good as it will get and it may not get that good for a long time. Who knows when I’ll see my Rocklin friends (or Lucy or Bailey, the family dogs) again?
I’ll see Karen, Michael, and Madison once a year, probably; the traditional Hawai‘i vacation will continue and for me, they’ll be cheaper than they've been in the past. But once a year is not the same as four or more times a year. It’s the end of an era.
It’s another “last.”
For the most part, I don’t really like these lasts. (The few I have liked I’ve mostly kept to myself.) Endings, of traditions or habits or regular contact or normal practices, are hard. Some are harder than others...
Farewells are hard. Reduced contact with loved ones (family, friends, respected colleagues) is hard. Change is hard, and the more it changes things we value, the harder it is.
But change is also inevitable, and sometimes choosing the change brings some comfort. I chose this change (and I’m sorry that it leaves some of you with no choice; I’m well aware that by choosing this change I’ve imposed unwelcome changes on you), and that helps me face the pain.
If I seem serene, I am. If I seem unaffected, I’m not. I’m deeply affected. My serenity is the product of a great deal of agonizing over my choices and my decision to “seize the day.” This choice is remaking me, and I’m not gonna lie; that’s among its attractions.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Because It’s Home
Some twelve yars ago, my sister and brother in law, my brother, and myself vacationed together on the island of Kaua‘i. Karen and Michael had been before and made the arrangements for lodging, and invited Matt and me to join them for a week.
I had last been to Hawai‘i more than fifteen years previously—a couple of days of liberty on Oah‘u when my ship made port call in Pearl Harbor—so I had few expectations. The company would be good, I knew, and that was good enough for me. Karen and Michael flew in an hour or two ahead of Matt and me, and Matt and I flew together.
On this trip, the Kaua‘i airport in Lihue didn’t have jetways; instead passengers debarked right onto the taxiway. As I stepped off the gangway onto the macadam, the very moment my foot hit the asphalt (not even the rich red clay characteristic of much of the island, but ordinary asphalt), I had an experience both mystical and ineffable.
It was as if I’d been doused in cool, refreshing water, from head to heel. Muscles I hadn’even known were tense unknotted, my pulse rate dropped five beats per minute, and I had an overwhelming sense that I was, finally, home.
A place I’d never been, home? A strange, in important ways foreign place, more “home” than the place I grew up and lived and worked most of my life?
It didn’t make any sense at all. And yet...
And yet, the sensation was unmistakable. The feeling was undeniable.
That didn’t stop me from questioning it, from doubting it, from attempting to deny it.
I am (or at least, I imagine myself to be) a rational man. I value skepticism. I question everything, doubt most things, and view the world not with a confident eye but a wondering (not “wandering”) one. This experience was transrational; it didn’t fit within the bounds of reason. It didn’t make sense, and so I couldn’t take it at face value. I filed it and went on vacation...
And everything, everything, reinforced the sense of that first transcendent moment: from the lush beauty of the landscape and its people through the value-driven local culture to the people themselves and their spirit of aloha, everything seemed at once both familiar and intriguingly mysterious, and everything tugged at my heart strings, laying claim to my allegiance.
Before the week was half over, I was ready to jump. I bought a book titled So You Want to Live in Hawaii and pored over it. I researched teaching jobs. I asked every local what I could do to make it easier. I was converted.
Everywhere I turned, I found receptive hearts ready to receive me. The guy who handled the poolside hut told me that if I would come and teach, I would stay with him “for a year, maybe two.” Locals encouraged me (actually, us; all four of us fell in love with Hawai‘i and together we plotted our lives in Paradise) and suggested ways to adjust, adapt, and assimilate.
At the end of that fist week, it was with heavy heart that I crutched onto the plane for the return flight (and the crutches are another story). I didn’t want to go, but I had “promises to keep.”
When I got back to the Mainland, I took stock of my life—family, friends, students, a well-paying job that I loved, respect and purposes—and weighed it against the risks and uncertainties of following my new dream to Hawai‘i. It was a titanic battle, but in the end the comfortable, familiar, safe life I already had defeated (just barely) the adventure I craved. I decided that Hawai‘i would be my retirement plan and set about living the life that was in front of me.
Yet every time I visited Hawai‘i—something I did almost every year—the same sensations, emotions, and desires recurred. Whether it was Kaua‘i (which swiftly became “home base”), Maui, or The Big Island, I always felt more at home there than I did at home. I began joking that I lived in Hawai‘i one week a year, and took a fifty-one week working vacation on the Mainland.
Those “working vacations” were good, by the way; what with my awesome family, my amazing theatre family, my fantastic friends, my beloved students, and a job that (mostly) just got better and better, I loved my “working vacations.” Nevertheless, every year it got harder and harder to board the plane and leave “home.”
Then in February of this year, one of the elements that made staying on the Mainland seem wiser than moving to Hawai‘i changed. My job, which I loved and found immensely personally rewarding (despite sometines significant frustrations and setbacks) became radically different.
I don’t want to go into detail; suffice to say, while I still love what I do and love those I do it with and for and respect many of my colleagues, I no longer loved where I did it. On the contrary, just going to work became dreadful. It became clear it was time for a change.
After a couple of weeks, my brother in law sent me a link to the Hawai‘i teacher recruitment page. In the email he wrote just one sentence: “Maybe it’s time.” That started the gears turning.
Maybe it’s time to roll the dice. Maybe it’s time to suit myself. Maybe it’s time to go for broke. Maybe it’s time to go home.
That’s my long answer to yesterday’s interviewer, who asked, “All your professional experience is in California, so why Hawai‘i?”
“Why Hawai‘i? Because it’s home.”
I had last been to Hawai‘i more than fifteen years previously—a couple of days of liberty on Oah‘u when my ship made port call in Pearl Harbor—so I had few expectations. The company would be good, I knew, and that was good enough for me. Karen and Michael flew in an hour or two ahead of Matt and me, and Matt and I flew together.
On this trip, the Kaua‘i airport in Lihue didn’t have jetways; instead passengers debarked right onto the taxiway. As I stepped off the gangway onto the macadam, the very moment my foot hit the asphalt (not even the rich red clay characteristic of much of the island, but ordinary asphalt), I had an experience both mystical and ineffable.
It was as if I’d been doused in cool, refreshing water, from head to heel. Muscles I hadn’even known were tense unknotted, my pulse rate dropped five beats per minute, and I had an overwhelming sense that I was, finally, home.
A place I’d never been, home? A strange, in important ways foreign place, more “home” than the place I grew up and lived and worked most of my life?
It didn’t make any sense at all. And yet...
And yet, the sensation was unmistakable. The feeling was undeniable.
That didn’t stop me from questioning it, from doubting it, from attempting to deny it.
I am (or at least, I imagine myself to be) a rational man. I value skepticism. I question everything, doubt most things, and view the world not with a confident eye but a wondering (not “wandering”) one. This experience was transrational; it didn’t fit within the bounds of reason. It didn’t make sense, and so I couldn’t take it at face value. I filed it and went on vacation...
And everything, everything, reinforced the sense of that first transcendent moment: from the lush beauty of the landscape and its people through the value-driven local culture to the people themselves and their spirit of aloha, everything seemed at once both familiar and intriguingly mysterious, and everything tugged at my heart strings, laying claim to my allegiance.
Before the week was half over, I was ready to jump. I bought a book titled So You Want to Live in Hawaii and pored over it. I researched teaching jobs. I asked every local what I could do to make it easier. I was converted.
Everywhere I turned, I found receptive hearts ready to receive me. The guy who handled the poolside hut told me that if I would come and teach, I would stay with him “for a year, maybe two.” Locals encouraged me (actually, us; all four of us fell in love with Hawai‘i and together we plotted our lives in Paradise) and suggested ways to adjust, adapt, and assimilate.
At the end of that fist week, it was with heavy heart that I crutched onto the plane for the return flight (and the crutches are another story). I didn’t want to go, but I had “promises to keep.”
When I got back to the Mainland, I took stock of my life—family, friends, students, a well-paying job that I loved, respect and purposes—and weighed it against the risks and uncertainties of following my new dream to Hawai‘i. It was a titanic battle, but in the end the comfortable, familiar, safe life I already had defeated (just barely) the adventure I craved. I decided that Hawai‘i would be my retirement plan and set about living the life that was in front of me.
Yet every time I visited Hawai‘i—something I did almost every year—the same sensations, emotions, and desires recurred. Whether it was Kaua‘i (which swiftly became “home base”), Maui, or The Big Island, I always felt more at home there than I did at home. I began joking that I lived in Hawai‘i one week a year, and took a fifty-one week working vacation on the Mainland.
Those “working vacations” were good, by the way; what with my awesome family, my amazing theatre family, my fantastic friends, my beloved students, and a job that (mostly) just got better and better, I loved my “working vacations.” Nevertheless, every year it got harder and harder to board the plane and leave “home.”
Then in February of this year, one of the elements that made staying on the Mainland seem wiser than moving to Hawai‘i changed. My job, which I loved and found immensely personally rewarding (despite sometines significant frustrations and setbacks) became radically different.
I don’t want to go into detail; suffice to say, while I still love what I do and love those I do it with and for and respect many of my colleagues, I no longer loved where I did it. On the contrary, just going to work became dreadful. It became clear it was time for a change.
After a couple of weeks, my brother in law sent me a link to the Hawai‘i teacher recruitment page. In the email he wrote just one sentence: “Maybe it’s time.” That started the gears turning.
Maybe it’s time to roll the dice. Maybe it’s time to suit myself. Maybe it’s time to go for broke. Maybe it’s time to go home.
That’s my long answer to yesterday’s interviewer, who asked, “All your professional experience is in California, so why Hawai‘i?”
“Why Hawai‘i? Because it’s home.”
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Homesick
Dropped off the Harley this morning at Pasha Hawai‘i in National City. And there were tears...again.
They weren’t tears of sadness. I like my Harley, but I don’t love it; if the ship were to sink, I don’t think I’d shed a tear. Things are only things, and I know that in both my head and my heart.
Rather, they were tears of joy. Again, not because of anything to do with the Harley at all; instead, because of what the act of putting the Harley on the boat represents.
The guy who inspected and took custody of the Harley asked me if I was going home or just going for vacation: I answered, “I’m going home...for the first time."
That’s why I cried. Every step now takes me closer to home...and I’ve been homesick (without really knowing it) for a long time.
And dear ones, you go with me; I carry you in my heart.
They weren’t tears of sadness. I like my Harley, but I don’t love it; if the ship were to sink, I don’t think I’d shed a tear. Things are only things, and I know that in both my head and my heart.
Rather, they were tears of joy. Again, not because of anything to do with the Harley at all; instead, because of what the act of putting the Harley on the boat represents.
The guy who inspected and took custody of the Harley asked me if I was going home or just going for vacation: I answered, “I’m going home...for the first time."
That’s why I cried. Every step now takes me closer to home...and I’ve been homesick (without really knowing it) for a long time.
And dear ones, you go with me; I carry you in my heart.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Not Worth the Worry
Today is the beginning of a busy week. My handyman, Chris, arrived at 7:20 AM to finish some work under the kitchen sink. I'm packing for a week away; on Wednesday Mom and I head to Rocklin to celebrate niece Madison’s birthday, and we won't be back until Saturday night, but in the meantime I’m:
Oh, and sometime Tuesday I have a phone interview with a Maui high school. And that just gets me to Wednesday!
Once in Rocklin things will calm down a little... my sister and brother in law work during the day and my niece has activities, so I'll have some downtime, but I’ll be leaving almost all the work I have left to do in Lancaster. So...
I should probably be stressed. Time is ticking away, and I still have plenty left to get done. And there are moments when I feel stress, but...
Mostly, I don’t. No matter what, I’m getting on an airplane in 15 days, and after some 5 hours and 40 minutes I’ll be landing in the home of my heart, the place I’ve longed to live for some 12 years now. If that’s where I’m headed—if I’m going to live in Hawai‘i a and try to adapt to Hawai‘ian culture—it’s time I tried to adapt my attitude. I can’t (and really, I don’t want to be) the kind of person who’s always tense. That’s one of the things I hope for in making this transition; a reduction in stress.
Oh, I know I can’t avoid stress altogether, and in truth some stressors are good for me—things like significant creative or intellectual challenges, the stretch for achievement, the uncertainty that’s part of creating new relationships—but the persistent, pervasive stress that’s part of the fabric of the culture I grew up in isn’t something I want any more.
Maybe I’m already learning to let go of things that aren’t worth the worry.
- getting some ‘ink’ in Chino this afternoon, after which I’m
- riding the Harley down to Fallbrook to overnight with my aunt Chere and uncle John, so
- tomorrow I can run the Harley down to National City and
- turn it over to the shipping company that will transport it to Hawai‘i, then
- I take Amtrak and Metrolink back to Palmdale, where
- a friend gives me a lift to Mom’s house, where I
- overnight before we leave for Rocklin Wednesday morning
Oh, and sometime Tuesday I have a phone interview with a Maui high school. And that just gets me to Wednesday!
Once in Rocklin things will calm down a little... my sister and brother in law work during the day and my niece has activities, so I'll have some downtime, but I’ll be leaving almost all the work I have left to do in Lancaster. So...
I should probably be stressed. Time is ticking away, and I still have plenty left to get done. And there are moments when I feel stress, but...
Mostly, I don’t. No matter what, I’m getting on an airplane in 15 days, and after some 5 hours and 40 minutes I’ll be landing in the home of my heart, the place I’ve longed to live for some 12 years now. If that’s where I’m headed—if I’m going to live in Hawai‘i a and try to adapt to Hawai‘ian culture—it’s time I tried to adapt my attitude. I can’t (and really, I don’t want to be) the kind of person who’s always tense. That’s one of the things I hope for in making this transition; a reduction in stress.
Oh, I know I can’t avoid stress altogether, and in truth some stressors are good for me—things like significant creative or intellectual challenges, the stretch for achievement, the uncertainty that’s part of creating new relationships—but the persistent, pervasive stress that’s part of the fabric of the culture I grew up in isn’t something I want any more.
Maybe I’m already learning to let go of things that aren’t worth the worry.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Swagger
Had a conversation today that got the old gears turning. A friend asked what it would mean for me to “raise a little hell,” and I proposed something ridiculous: “Give a girl a false name and number, go home with her, disappear the next morning? Hell, I don’t know; I've never raised hell before.”
Before you react too strongly, let me finish. A little later in the conversation I qualified my suggestion—“It really isn’t my nature, you know”—which led me to wonder, “Of course, that may be the point. Maybe what I'm doing—maybe what I need to do—is transcend what I think of as ‘my nature.’”
I’m not suggesting that what I ought to do is become a “playah.” (I’m not saying it isn’t, either—it’s an honest question: “What does it mean to ‘transcend’ one’s nature?”) What I am suggesting—or maybe what I’m wondering—is that—if—transcendence is something so far outside outside one’s usual behavior that whether or not something is “one’s nature” is actually irrelevant.
This whole adventure “isn’t my nature,” which is part of my reason for doing it. I am not altogether satisfied with who and how I’ve been. Going to Hawai‘i—without concrete prospects or a fat savings cushion or a concrete, detailed plan (or even an escape route)—is significantly about reinventing myself as someone more confident, more daring, more carefree than has been “my nature.” That’s a big part of the point.
Maybe you can see how all this relates to a casual suggestion that what I ought to do is “raise a little hell” and subsequent ridiculous wise-assing about what that might entail?
There are few circumstances I can imagine in which I would intentionally deceive someone: not for big, life and death issues and certainly not merely for selfish gratification. And the whole thing smacks of using someone; not a value I endorse or subscribe to.
What I’m trying to do is invent myself as someone with the confidence often associated with the kind of asshole who would do those things, but without the asshole-ishness.
Because really, there are enough assholes in the world without me adding to their number.
at the end of this transformation I still want to be the compassionate, caring, considerate, loving, all around awesome guy I am right now.
But I want some swagger, too.
Before you react too strongly, let me finish. A little later in the conversation I qualified my suggestion—“It really isn’t my nature, you know”—which led me to wonder, “Of course, that may be the point. Maybe what I'm doing—maybe what I need to do—is transcend what I think of as ‘my nature.’”
I’m not suggesting that what I ought to do is become a “playah.” (I’m not saying it isn’t, either—it’s an honest question: “What does it mean to ‘transcend’ one’s nature?”) What I am suggesting—or maybe what I’m wondering—is that—if—transcendence is something so far outside outside one’s usual behavior that whether or not something is “one’s nature” is actually irrelevant.
This whole adventure “isn’t my nature,” which is part of my reason for doing it. I am not altogether satisfied with who and how I’ve been. Going to Hawai‘i—without concrete prospects or a fat savings cushion or a concrete, detailed plan (or even an escape route)—is significantly about reinventing myself as someone more confident, more daring, more carefree than has been “my nature.” That’s a big part of the point.
Maybe you can see how all this relates to a casual suggestion that what I ought to do is “raise a little hell” and subsequent ridiculous wise-assing about what that might entail?
There are few circumstances I can imagine in which I would intentionally deceive someone: not for big, life and death issues and certainly not merely for selfish gratification. And the whole thing smacks of using someone; not a value I endorse or subscribe to.
What I’m trying to do is invent myself as someone with the confidence often associated with the kind of asshole who would do those things, but without the asshole-ishness.
Because really, there are enough assholes in the world without me adding to their number.
at the end of this transformation I still want to be the compassionate, caring, considerate, loving, all around awesome guy I am right now.
But I want some swagger, too.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Fetters and Jailhouse Walls: Part 2
So...
I just finished writing Fetters and Jailhouse Walls and in an on-line conversation about the post, I typed something that turned out to be a major epiphany (why do my epiphanies only come to conscious attention after I speak or write them?). That epiphany triggered this post.
One of the big issues involved in disposing of material excess is deciding what to keep. I've struggled with this because I have a lot of stuff, and for each item I've had to consider whether it was something I'd need in my new life, whether it was something worth transporting to Hawai`i, and whether or not it had emotional significance to me. That's too much consideration when you have as much crap as I do!
So the epiphany was this; for me, the things worth keeping will fall into one of the following categories:
That's not to say that things not in these categories are automatically on the chopping block but if I have to choose between something that is in one of these categories and something that isn't, that which isn't will go.
I just finished writing Fetters and Jailhouse Walls and in an on-line conversation about the post, I typed something that turned out to be a major epiphany (why do my epiphanies only come to conscious attention after I speak or write them?). That epiphany triggered this post.
One of the big issues involved in disposing of material excess is deciding what to keep. I've struggled with this because I have a lot of stuff, and for each item I've had to consider whether it was something I'd need in my new life, whether it was something worth transporting to Hawai`i, and whether or not it had emotional significance to me. That's too much consideration when you have as much crap as I do!
So the epiphany was this; for me, the things worth keeping will fall into one of the following categories:
- Necessities
- basic clothing
- basic shelter
- basic hygiene items
- Tools
- tools required to practice your trade
- tools that empower you
- tools that enrich your life
- Aesthetic Items
- things that are beautiful
- things with which one creates beauty
- Enlightening Items
- things that stimulate the intellect
- things that stimulate the intuition
- things that challenge assumptions
That's not to say that things not in these categories are automatically on the chopping block but if I have to choose between something that is in one of these categories and something that isn't, that which isn't will go.
Fetters and Jailhouse Walls
As my departure nears (might even say it looms), I find myself less and less motivated to deal with the temporalities I need to take care of—"stuff" like sorting and disposing of possessions, packing and labeling what I'm keeping, dealing with the house—all I really want to do is spend time with friends and family. In fact I find I resent the things I have to do that make doing the things I want to do more difficult.
Part of it is that mentally, I'm already gone, so the "things" I have to deal with are in some sense already in the rear-view. The people never will be—the people and our relationships are persistent in my mind and extend into the future—but the "stuff" just doesn't matter to me any more.
And part of it is the realization that "things" make pretty effective fetters and walls.
Crass materialism really is awful. Too much regard for the the accumulation and possession of things makes one the slave of those things. How can one follow one's impulses while hauling a shit-ton of stuff around? And in addition, things can easily become barriers that separate people. I want to fly free, but I can't while I have all this stuff!
I've seriously contemplated a one-match solution; light a match, carelessly drop it, and run like hell! Irresponsible, I know, but it's an albatross around my neck. I won't do that, but it sure would be easy...
For me, people are never the kind of burden that things are. People are worth more to me than things are. And in our modern world, with advanced communication technology, relationships can be sustained over vaster distances than what I'm contemplating. If that weren't so, I might not go.
Once I've accomplished this downsizing (I like to think of it as "rightsizing"), I plan to guard against ever being so burdened by things again. It might not be difficult—if living is expensive and income is low, staying "free" of material accumulation may be automatic—but whether it's difficult or easy, it's important. By minimizing what I have (beyond necessities, however those are defined), I'll keep more room in my life for what really matters.
I'll keep more room in my life for family and friends.
Part of it is that mentally, I'm already gone, so the "things" I have to deal with are in some sense already in the rear-view. The people never will be—the people and our relationships are persistent in my mind and extend into the future—but the "stuff" just doesn't matter to me any more.
And part of it is the realization that "things" make pretty effective fetters and walls.
Crass materialism really is awful. Too much regard for the the accumulation and possession of things makes one the slave of those things. How can one follow one's impulses while hauling a shit-ton of stuff around? And in addition, things can easily become barriers that separate people. I want to fly free, but I can't while I have all this stuff!
I've seriously contemplated a one-match solution; light a match, carelessly drop it, and run like hell! Irresponsible, I know, but it's an albatross around my neck. I won't do that, but it sure would be easy...
For me, people are never the kind of burden that things are. People are worth more to me than things are. And in our modern world, with advanced communication technology, relationships can be sustained over vaster distances than what I'm contemplating. If that weren't so, I might not go.
Once I've accomplished this downsizing (I like to think of it as "rightsizing"), I plan to guard against ever being so burdened by things again. It might not be difficult—if living is expensive and income is low, staying "free" of material accumulation may be automatic—but whether it's difficult or easy, it's important. By minimizing what I have (beyond necessities, however those are defined), I'll keep more room in my life for what really matters.
I'll keep more room in my life for family and friends.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Eight Days Later
Eight days later...
I've lost blogging momentum. Lots of reasons, I think—I wrote Normal on June 2, 2012 and I spent June 3 at the Avalon Dive Park on Catalina Island with my brother for his birthday, then on the 4th I had a tattoo appointment, I spent the 5th through the 8th working around the house (or avoiding working around the house), I had a moving sale yesterday and today, and today I shared a sermon with the Canoga Park Community of Christ—but the longer I go the easier it is to just not write.
That's not acceptable to me, however. It's in writing that I discover things: that I learn the lessons this adventure has to teach me, that I articulate for myself and sometimes for others the simple truths of life, that I pay homage to what God is doing with (or maybe to?) me. I write this blog for me, and share it in case it's some use to you, my faithful readers.
So, lessons learned (in no particular order):
I still don't know how I'm going to say goodbye to my family and theatre family and friends. I know I'm going to; just don't know how. I try not to spend too much time thinking about it, because it makes me want to curl up in the fetal position. I know the relationships will endure—I know that the aloha won't go away—but they will change.
Like just about everyone, I'm not a big fan of change.
Intellectually, I love change. In my head, I know that change is necessary, that change is growth, that change is opportunity, that change is dynamic...but all that's in my head. In my gut, change is uncertainty, change is risk, change is fear. I want to control change, and that's not always or even usually possible, nor is it particularly desirable.
For years now I've tried to embrace change with some success. One of the most encouraging things for me with all this is that I actually am embracing pretty radical changes. But when it comes to changes in those relationships—the most precious things I've ever had—well, I'd rather hug a Saguaro cactus.
I know I'm going to say goodbye—really, I do—but I don't know how. And not knowing is really uncomfortable for me.
------------------------------
In other news, someone managed to take out the row of mailboxes for the houses on my little dirt road Friday night. I've got contact information for the California Highway Patrol officer who has the details, but so far I'm assuming the driver either isn't liable for the damage or isn't able (no insurance, no resources, whatever) to make it right.
So my neighbors and I have to figure out what we're going to do and do it. I'd bought a new mailbox—the old one was having issues with door closure and leakage and I thought the renters, if and when, would appreciate having a mailbox that worked—but luckily I hadn't installed it yet. An unanticipated expense; probably not the last one.
Calamity Jane, my feline overlord, seems oddly undisturbed by the chaos that her home has become. I hope she's as adaptable when she moves to Mom's house in not more than three weeks.
Holy Crap! Three weeks!
I've lost blogging momentum. Lots of reasons, I think—I wrote Normal on June 2, 2012 and I spent June 3 at the Avalon Dive Park on Catalina Island with my brother for his birthday, then on the 4th I had a tattoo appointment, I spent the 5th through the 8th working around the house (or avoiding working around the house), I had a moving sale yesterday and today, and today I shared a sermon with the Canoga Park Community of Christ—but the longer I go the easier it is to just not write.
That's not acceptable to me, however. It's in writing that I discover things: that I learn the lessons this adventure has to teach me, that I articulate for myself and sometimes for others the simple truths of life, that I pay homage to what God is doing with (or maybe to?) me. I write this blog for me, and share it in case it's some use to you, my faithful readers.
So, lessons learned (in no particular order):
- I have too much stuff! I have too much stuff because when you live alone in a big house, there's no reason not to have too much stuff, and deciding to get rid of things (and what things to get rid of) when you don't have to is too hard. It's the decision, see? When I have the luxury of keeping things for some mythical "someday" when I'll need it, why wouldn't I?
It is a luxury, and that "someday" is mythical, and thus is a hoarder born (or hatched, or whatever). I don't need this stuff, I'll quite likely never need this stuff, and if someday I do need this stuff, I'm going to want new "this stuff." Let it go! - It feels good to let go. There's a lightness of being that comes when lightening one's load. It amazes me how good it felt to sell something I was hanging onto for far less than it's worth just to get rid of it. There's still a lot to dispose of, but with each piece (big or small) that goes, my spirit lifts.
- Exercise feels good. I've started walking with an informal group styling itself the "Boulevard Windwalkers - 'Walk N Talk' Tours." It's local folk, mostly "of an age," who know each other through community theatre. We generally do a couple of miles a day—not too brisk but not a stroll, either—after which we stop for coffee or breakfast. I'm certainly going to miss the fellowship of these amazing people, I think I'll continue the habit of walking mornings if at all practical. It starts the day off on the right "foot."
- Time is like water. It slips through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hang on. It isn't that there isn't enough time; it's that we can't hold onto enough time to do all we plan. And I think we just have to be okay with that...do what we can do, and let the rest go.
- It isn't me, it's you. I've made a more-than good faith effort to connect with some precious people, and it just hasn't worked out. But it isn't my fault; I've tried, and been flexible, and been accommodating. So "It isn't me, it's you," and that's okay. At least, I'm okay with it. Sure, I'm sad we haven't gotten together, but if I've done my part then I've done my part. As I've been known to say (and as some friends frequently say), "It is what it is."
But please...don't lose my number. If circumstances change, send me a text or give me a ring.
I still don't know how I'm going to say goodbye to my family and theatre family and friends. I know I'm going to; just don't know how. I try not to spend too much time thinking about it, because it makes me want to curl up in the fetal position. I know the relationships will endure—I know that the aloha won't go away—but they will change.
Like just about everyone, I'm not a big fan of change.
Intellectually, I love change. In my head, I know that change is necessary, that change is growth, that change is opportunity, that change is dynamic...but all that's in my head. In my gut, change is uncertainty, change is risk, change is fear. I want to control change, and that's not always or even usually possible, nor is it particularly desirable.
For years now I've tried to embrace change with some success. One of the most encouraging things for me with all this is that I actually am embracing pretty radical changes. But when it comes to changes in those relationships—the most precious things I've ever had—well, I'd rather hug a Saguaro cactus.
I know I'm going to say goodbye—really, I do—but I don't know how. And not knowing is really uncomfortable for me.
------------------------------
In other news, someone managed to take out the row of mailboxes for the houses on my little dirt road Friday night. I've got contact information for the California Highway Patrol officer who has the details, but so far I'm assuming the driver either isn't liable for the damage or isn't able (no insurance, no resources, whatever) to make it right.
So my neighbors and I have to figure out what we're going to do and do it. I'd bought a new mailbox—the old one was having issues with door closure and leakage and I thought the renters, if and when, would appreciate having a mailbox that worked—but luckily I hadn't installed it yet. An unanticipated expense; probably not the last one.
Calamity Jane, my feline overlord, seems oddly undisturbed by the chaos that her home has become. I hope she's as adaptable when she moves to Mom's house in not more than three weeks.
Holy Crap! Three weeks!
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