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!