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?
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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.
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