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.

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!