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:

• “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

Both of these (and many others) go directly to the area where I am growing the most: finally relinquishing the illusion of control.

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 serenity
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

The 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.

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.”

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?

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:

• 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.

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’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.

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.

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.”

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.

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:

• 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.

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.

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:

1. Necessities
• basic clothing
• basic shelter
• basic hygiene items
2. Tools
• tools required to practice your trade
• tools that empower you
• tools that enrich your life
3. Aesthetic Items
• things that are beautiful
• things with which one creates beauty
4. Enlightening Items
• things that stimulate the intellect
• things that stimulate the intuition
• things that challenge assumptions

I'm not suggesting that these categories are altogether comprehensive, nor am I suggesting that they're universal to everyone. What I'm suggesting is that these are the things that are important to me. And if anything I own does not fit easily into one of these categories, I will not regret disposing of it. To me, these are the necessities: physical needs, tools of empowerment, things of beauty, and things that awaken me.

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.

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):

1. 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!
   
2. 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.
   
3. 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."
   
4. 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.
   
5. 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'm sure there are more, but those are the ones that stand out.



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!

Normal

"It doesn't take long for even the most outrageous reality to become 'normal.'"

For most of my life, that sentence would have been the lead-in to a rant against complacency; a challenge to reject an outrageous (and unpalatable) "reality" and work to change things. Today, I see it from a different angle.

It's only been a few weeks since I committed to a course of total upheaval. Only a few weeks, and already this outrageous reality—this complete rejection of what I believed to be normal—is becoming my new normal. I look at an enormous stack of clothes I'm getting rid of (one way or another) and it's normal. I look at the piles of things on my carport ready to be sold and that's normal. I arrange to sell my truck and there's nothing strange about it.

I contemplate starting over—making new connections, finding a place for myself, becoming someone new—and that feels normal, too. Not necessarily comfortable, but "normal."

The same tendency that leads many to accept outrageously wrong things as "normal" (the way many ordinary Germans did during World War II) can also lead one to accept just about anything else, no matter how outrageous, as normal. The difference between "Oh my God!" and "Meh, routine" seems to be nothing more complicated than time.

No one likes change. I believe sincerely, with all my heart, that change is often necessary and often good—I believe with all my heart that this change I'm facing is not just "good" but GOOD—yet I have not always embraced this change, even though I chose it. But by sticking to my guns and persisting when tempted to turn back, I've acclimated. Now this change is becoming my new "normal."

About the time I get acclimated, though, it's all going to change again. What's becoming "normal" right now is a transitional state, from one situation to another. And the situation to which I'm transitioning is itself undefined and unstable. I don't expect my situation to normalize for a while.

What I'm getting at is this: I'm going to be constantly off balance for the next little while. I may feel normal—occasionally, for a time—but what feels normal is going to be transient until my life settles down. I'll always be growing accustomed to newness.

So okay. I'm not normal—I've been saying so for years—for a while, my experience is going to match my nature. I think I can learn to live with that.

And really, what other choice do I have?

Progress!

Progress! Today's goals:

• clear master bedroom (except bed)
• clear living room
• clear family room
• pack ham radio gear

Yesterday's laundry marathon (continuing into an ultramarathon today) made the master bedroom achievable. The living room and dining room are mostly large furniture; not a lot of stuff that needs sorting or boxing. There's a little of that in the family room, but overall, nothing major. And the carport is already looking like a garage sale.

It seems I've turned the corner emotionally, too. I'm still saddened when I think of who I'm leaving behind, but generally my thoughts are either in the here-and-now ("Live in the now!") or anticipating (with excitement!) what's to come.

So today, clear three rooms and get radio gear ready to ship to Christof (who makes beautiful knives: check them out at Koyote Knives). Tomorrow, probably finish what doesn't get done today.

• Saturday afternoon I'm going to head to Upland, leaving around 2:00 PM, to meet up with some church folk I might not otherwise get to say goodbye to.
• Saturday evening I'll go to my brother's in Fontana; we'll chill and maybe visit some folk in that area.
• Sunday (my brother's birthday) we'll take the Express to Catalina Island for some diving: my last routine Southern California dive.
• Back to Fontana Sunday night to clean dive gear
• Monday afternoon, another tattoo session: the honu and humuhumunukunukuapua`a will be joined by a lau wiliwili
• Monday night or Tuesday morning, back to the grind

It's a busy time, but there is enough time, I think: time to savor what's precious here, and time to accomplish what's needful before leaving.