Hard Gratitudes

Hard Gratitudes

I woke this morning still melancholy—not depressed, not joyless, not demoralized...just a little “blue”—and as I reflected on what I’m feeling, I found myself face to face with what I once called my “demons” and now simply call “feelings.” They aren’t evil and I’m not their victim; rather, they are part of me and help to make me who I am. They, too, painful as they sometimes are, are worthy of my love. They, too, are things I can be grateful for (although it’s hard).

In the spirit of love, then, I want to express my gratitude for the hard things:

Loss

We all know loss, and it’s a hard thing to be grateful for. Even small kine losses—lost car keys, broken cell phones, a misplaced twenty—powerfully affect us, I think because, rightly or wrongly, we associate our belongings with ourselves. The loss of a cell phone is the loss of a part of us.

Without getting into whether or not this is “good” or “bad,” I just want to acknowledge it; when we lose even “small” things, we feel the loss.

How much more do we feel the loss of loved ones? When friends or family move far away, when important and meaningful relationships break, when pets and friends and family die...these are times that try our souls. Few would dispute that family and friends (and emotionally, pets are often “family”) really are part of us, and their loss—whether through a broken relationship or mortality—is, I think, as devastating as the loss of a limb or organ. We do lose a part of ourselves when we lose a family member or friend or pet.

How can I be grateful for events and experiences that cause such pain? Why would I even want to be grateful?

Loss is universal and inevitable. It is utterly democratic; all of us—rich or poor, powerful or powerless, respected or despised—suffer loss. Nothing—not money, not power, not honor—can insulate any of us from the experience of loss. And loss (and our response to loss) shapes us in powerful ways, but we can choose how we respond to loss and thereby choose how we will be shaped by it.

I choose to be grateful for loss; not that I’m glad to suffer it, but rather that I’m grateful for what it has to teach me.

Loss has taught me to treasure every moment I have with those I love. Loss has taught me the importance of those I’ve lost. Loss has taught me the value of relationships. Loss has helped me be more human.

Loneliness

Let me begin by saying that I am not lonely in the “I don’t have any friends” sense. I am rich in friends, rich beyond the dreams of Croesus, and I am grateful to be so blessed. I know no greater treasure than family and friends. The loneliness I’m talking about is very specific—it is the longing for a “companion” with whom to share awesomeness—and it seems inconsolable. It is my experience and I own it; your mileage may vary, but this is what I feel and it hurts, all the time. I don’t believe this makes me weak or flawed or damaged or foolish. Please try not to judge.

My two most persistent, lifelong, deeply felt desires go together:

1. the desire to have and be a companion
2. the desire to be a daddy

Neither desire has ever left me, and the longing is a constant ache. I know at least some of the reasons why I’m “alone”—in the “companion” sense—and have done what I can (consistent with my nature) to address those reasons and achieve my desires, yet here I am.

I am not (any longer) miserably lonely. I am deliriously happy with the life I have, and take great solace in my amazing family relationships and friendships. And while I don’t want to be this kind of lonely, I am grateful for my loneliness.

I’m grateful for my loneliness because its persistence—I’ve never fully resigned myself to companionlessness, not even for a moment, not even when I said I did, not even when I desperately wanted to—tells me something important about who I am and what I value. I’m grateful for my loneliness because it fosters empathy for others who are likewise alone. I’m grateful for my loneliness because (finally!) it makes me powerfully vulnerable to love in its myriad forms. I’m even grateful for that persistent ache; I think it’s what kept me grounded in humanity for all the years I shut the world out.

Betrayal

I can hear some of you mumbling already. “How can you be grateful for betrayal? Why would you even want to be? Betrayal hurts, and isn’t gratitude for something that hurts perilously close to masochism?”

Let me ’splain.

In choosing to be grateful for betrayal, I’m not excusing the action, nor am I justifying the pain or loss suffered. What I’m doing is reclaiming my love for those who betrayed me.

That’s right: from my perspective, I was betrayed by people I love, and yet I love them still. In order to get past the pain—in order to keep it from warping me into someone I don’t want to be—I must forgive, must find compassion for my “betrayers,” and must choose to be grateful; if not for the betrayal itself, then for the good that has come of it. Doing so lances the boil of festering resentment that might otherwise poison my being. I would rather love my betrayers than hate them (although they’ll never know either way) because loving is good for me.

There are other reasons for being grateful for betrayal: it’s good to know who you’re dealing with, sometimes the unintended consequences are amazing (it was a betrayal that brought be home to Maui), it is empowering to learn to deal with treatment you know you don’t deserve, there is dignity in maintaining equanimity in the face of undeserved ill treatment, and many others; we all know that good can come of adversity.

Yeah, I never thought I would be (despite ample reason to be), but I’m grateful for betrayal.

Disappointment

Disappointment is another universal. We all face it regularly. Once upon a time, I thought that I endured more disappointment than others, but I no longer think so; whether it’s true or not, it’s irrelevant, and comparisons do me more harm than good. Each of us has our own experience with disappointment, and (since each of us is at the center of our experience) our individual disappointments are the ones that matter most to us.

I’m grateful for disappointment because of what it teaches me: perseverance, acceptance, and adaptation, among other lessons. I used to allow disappointment to stop me in my tracks—“If ‘it’ didn’t work out,” I reasoned, “it isn’t meant to be”—but I’m learning that while there is yet breath, nothing is final. The new lesson—the one I’ve just begun to learn—is that disappointment is a product of expectation, and expectation (at least, expectation of specific outcomes) is not something I need in my life.

Disappointment, then, is another of my teachers, and I’m grateful for the lesson, even when I don’t enjoy it.

Just Because It’s Difficult...

...doesn’t mean it’s bad. The practice of gratitude, like so many spiritual practices, is ongoing and sometimes demanding. Melancholy drove me to reflect on these “Hard Gratitudes,” and reflecting has brought me a measure of peace. I wish you all peace and all joy and all gratitude this Thanksgiving Day.

All...the...aloha!

Location:Wailuku, Maui, HI, United States

Maui 2013 Summer of Love

When I moved to Maui, I had no idea what to expect; I’d visited on a couple of occasions (and I hadn't really liked it, to be honest; compared to Kauaʻi and da’ Big Island, it seemed pretty “touristy”), but I didn’t have a real feel for the place as its own place.

When I moved, I had some rather vague hopes that I would be somehow “different” in a new place (and Maui certainly qualified); that by moving somewhere where I didn’t know anyone I would be magically transformed into something different than I had been in Lancaster, that I’d behave differently just because no one I met would know how I’d behaved before.

It isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought, but it isn’t the brightest, either.

Oh, there were little differences—I smiled a bit more, didn’t avoid eye contact quite so much—but I was still the me I’d always been. The radical transformation I sought was going to require more than a mere change of venue, but I was impatient and wanted results now!

Even though a change in venue didn’t change me the way I thought it should, it didn’t take long for Maui to capture my heart. Away from the resorts, I met the same small-town Hawaiʻi with which I first fell in love on my first visit to Kauaʻi in 2000. I fell in love with the place, with my students, with the people, with the culture, and (of course!) with the theatre ʻohana. And as I settled in, I went back to work on me, courting I knew not what, unwilling to stay as I was.

Mind, it isn’t that I thought I was terrible, or a mess. In my head, I knew full well that I had a lot going on. But because knowing isn’t the same as believing and what I’d always believed wasn’t nearly as nice as what I “knew,” what I had in my head wasn’t nearly enough. My affect and my reactions manifested my beliefs (that I was unattractive, unworthy, foolish, etc.) rather than my knowledge (that I was attractive, worthy, smart, etc.)

So I worked, and I made progress; not nearly fast enough to suit my impatient heart, but still progress. My self-perception has always been notoriously intransigent, so it should have come as no surprise at all that progress was slow; the real surprise (at the time) was that I made any progress at all. Progress, however slow, and being where I (somehow!) knew I belonged added savor to every day. And thankfully, the Maui theatre community is vibrant and alive and loving. just as I had done in Lancaster, here I dove headlong into theatre.

And, just as on the mainland, people somehow saw past my poor self-perception and pitched in to help me see myself more as they did. Just as on the mainland, they became coaches and cheerleaders and exemplars; they applied themselves for my benefit. As slow as my growth seemed, at least I was (am!) loved, and knew (and know!) it.

Then came Rent on Maui.

It’s a show I love dearly, one of maybe three musicals that are rooted deeply in my heart. The theatre company, Maui On Stage, chose their Production/Facilities Manager—a gifted actor, musician, and all-around theatre artist—to direct, and selected a phenomenal musician and teacher as music director. They in turn assembled a passionate, committed, gifted, and above all else loving cast which (to my then-surprise and now-and-everlasting joy) included me.

It’s an unwise but deeply human thing to compare oneself with others. I found myself among talents that (in my perception) towered over mine and I wondered, “What the hell am I doing here?” In my self-doubt and self-consciousness, I felt seriously out of place, but Oh! How I wanted to belong!

Because, you see, each and every member of that cast is brilliant and gorgeous and amazing and awesome and hip and cool, and I always want to hang around with the cool and brilliant; I’ve always imagined that if I could just win their acceptance, some of their brilliance and beauty and awesomeness and hipness and coolness might “rub off” on me.

Spoiler alert: this time, it did.

There’s something very special (to me) about Maui On Stage at the Historic Iao Theater. I did my first Maui show, The Wizard of Oz, with them last fall, beginning to weave that network of like-minded friends that remains the most important (but far from the only important) reason I do theatre. I feel at home in the Iao—which is not to say I don’t also feel at home with MAPA (the Maui Academy of Performing Arts), with which I did my second show on Maui, Man of La Mancha, in which I made more dear friends, but firsts are always special—there’s something about the Iao that suits me like a well-worn pair of slippahs.

And the amazing cast and crew of Rent more than accepted me. They embraced me, they loved me, they forgave me my awkwardness, they made me theirs. Love is the fabric and substance of our Rent ʻohana, and I am woven into that fabric not because of who or what I am so much as because who and how we are. We are lovers, and that’s what lovers do; they love each other.

When you don’t love yourself, though (or don’t think you do), it can be hard to accept the gift of love when others give it. That was me; I wanted the love I was being offered, but I was afraid...a formless fear that encouraged me to keep up my defenses. This tension ate at me, hope sustained only because my desire to love and be loved was (barely ) stronger than that fear.

Love changed me. Love changes everything.

Over the course of the rehearsal and run we became so very close. I trusted more and more and relaxed more and more and (oh, so gradually) came to accept the gift of love my cast mates offered, to offer my own love to my cast mates, and (finally!) to begin to believe that I was not an interloper, but rather a rightful member of this family I love.

For me, that’s a big deal, but it’s not unfamiliar territory; I’ve been here before. It’s a good thing—in fact, it’s a great thing—but it wouldn’t be growth if I went no further.

It seems I was close to a breakthrough; that breakthrough came just two days after Rent closed, and the trigger was courtesy of one of my Rent ʻohana.

I got a text Tuesday morning: “‘The Vortex’ by Esther and Jerry Hicks. I just started reading it on the plane to Boston, and it’s kinda blowing my mind. Thought of you instantly. xoxo”

On the strength of that recommendation and still marinating in the rich broth of our own Rent “Summer of Love,” I began to read. What I read resonated with the love and compassion I’d come to expect this summer and with all the hard work I and others had done before, and suddenly, in the course of one day, I was transformed. I see things differently. I see myself differently.

All at once, my focus has shifted from that which I always bemoaned as missing to all that I have. All at once, I’ve gone from self-loathing to self-loving. All at once I believe what I once only “knew”—that I’m attractive, that I’m worthy, that I’m smart. All at once I believe that what I choose to focus on affects what I encounter in life. I am not a victim; I am the author of my fate. I spent my whole life up to this point focusing on what I lack, but from this point forward I focus on what is coming to me.

Notice I said “what is coming to me,” not “what the future might hold.” I am confident that the universe and I are working together to make my dreams come true; to manifest them in my life. This I both know and believe.

I don’t claim to know exactly what form that manifestation will take, and I don’t care. No matter what, it will be perfect. It is the product of my focus—what The Vortex calls “Vibrations”—and the natural response of the universe to that focus, and I focus on good and worthy desires and aspirations that will—that must—come to pass.

In just one day I changed—I am a new creature—and when I changed so did my world. And this, which has been my hope for so long, is now real.

Haole Guilt

In Sunday’s post, A Guest in My Own Home, I wrote about an attitude I have that I think affects my ability to put myself “out there” socially: something that might be termed “Good Guest Syndrome.”

As I wrote there, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to be a “good guest” and not a thing wrong with respecting whatever culture one puts oneself into. Where I’ve gone wrong is in being too reticent—too hesitant and too cautious—for someone who’s made a decision to make this place my home.

Further reflection yielded an additional element to the attitudes that are, perhaps, holding me back socially. I call it “Haole Guilt.”

In Hawai‘ian, “Haole” means “white person” or “foreigner.” The term can be affectionate or disparaging applied to a white person or foreigner, depending on how the speaker feels about the haole, but generally it’s understood to refer to those whites who act arrogant and superior, especially those of Hawai‘ian or half-Hawai‘ian descent who have adopted the ways and attitudes of whites.

I believe myself to be humble; I hope I approach Hawai‘ian culture with an attitude of humility, reverence, appreciation, and curiosity. I do not (consciously) think of myself as a “haole,” at least not the kind of whom the term is used disparagingly.

I find myself astoundingly conscious, however, of the injustices suffered by indigenous Hawai‘ians, particularly at the hands of the U.S. government. Every weekend I see (and someday soon I’m going to patronize) a barbecue selling huli chicken as a fundraiser for “Lawful Hawai‘ian Government.” Every day I see vehicles with bumper stickers calling for a “Reinstated Hawai‘ian Nation.” Even a cursory review of the history makes it seem clear that the U.S. government illegally annexed the Hawai‘ian Islands against the wishes of its lawful and sovereign government and its indigenous population.

In addition, haole were responsible for the suppression of Hawai‘ian culture and language, although to be fair it was also haole New England missionaries who initially strove to preserve Hawai‘ian language and tradition.

I am deeply sympathetic with Hawai‘ians who feel robbed of their heritage and who long for independence and self-determination. And because I am sympathetic, I feel a measure of “haole guilt”—guilt by association for the wrongs done by “white people”—even though I personally did none of them.

I wear the face of their ancestors’ oppressors. Out of respect, I hold back from pushing myself into a culture that I believe has the “right” to refuse me, even though I personally have committed no offense.

Again, though, as with “Good Guest Syndrome,” “Haole Guilt” goes too far. I tend to be so concerned about giving offense that I avoid opportunities to be welcomed in (and it is a welcoming culture). I borrow trouble I don’t have, don’t need, and don’t deserve.

“Good Guest Syndrome” and “Haole Guilt” have worthy roots, but have grown too broad and now block the rays of the life-giving sun. It’s time for a pruning.

A Guest in My Own Home

Today I toured downtown Lahaina as part of a program called “History in Our Back Yard,” organized by the Lahaina Restoration Foundation (a non-profit historical society that manages a number of historic sites in the town). The program is intended for teachers in the area, and between 10 and 15 teachers enjoyed a walking tour of significant historic and cultural sites while volunteers explained their significance.

Sites ranged from Moku ‘Ula, the sacred island where once Hawai‘ian royalty dwelled to the old prison and everything in between: three Buddhist Missions, the oldest church in Lahaina, the King’s Taro Patch, the Baldwin House, Hale Aloha, the courthouse, the banyan tree, the Pioneer Hotel, the print house where the first newspaper west of the Rockies was published (in the Hawai‘ian language), the smokestack for the old sugar mill...more than I can easily name. It was amazing (just like last week’s Huaka‘i bus tour), and added to the mound of evidence that I am where I belong.

On the mainland, I was in many ways a round peg in a world with square holes. On Maui, I find smooth, well-worn round holes where I fit just fine. I am home.

The cruise ship was anchored off shore, making today “Boat Day,” and the area by the courthouse was swarming with posturing, posing, self-important “Look at me!” cruise passengers (tourists). They were loud and obnoxious, and everything they did was clearly intended to draw attention to them.

It worked, too, though in my case at least, the attention was not admiring or appreciative. They had no attention to spare for the amazing place they stood; all their attention was on getting the attention of others. “Tourists,” I thought. “If they only knew how ridiculous they look.”

I much prefer the stereotypical rubbernecking redneck, getting a crick from looking at the tall buildings in New York City; s/he is interested (if unsophisticated), and I myself have stood in awe with my jaw hanging open, without one thought for how I looked. Awesome sights ought to be seen as wonders, and wonders deserve a reaction. I pray I’m never “too cool” to gawk and point at something wonderful.

This led me to reflect a little on how I, a lifelong tourist in many ways, did it differently.

My sojourn as a world traveling tourist began when I was a Navy rating on the U.S.S. England, a guided missile cruiser. I sometimes think that the very best thing about being in the Navy was the chance to travel. While I didn’t travel as much as some, I still visited: Victoria, British Columbia; Subic Bay, the Philippines; Singapore; and Perth, Australia. I loved it.

I loved meeting new people and seeing new places and learning about cultures other than the one I grew up with. I loved discovering different customs and different cuisines and different couture. I was always mindful that I was a guest and as a good guest, it was my duty to adapt to whatever degree possible to the culture and customs of my hosts.

I was always a little embarrassed for my shipmates and countrymen who just didn’t get it; who apparently had no capacity to appreciate the “different.”

They were the ones who wouldn’t even try food that wasn’t what they were used to at home. They were the ones who figured that English was the only “natural” human language, and if you just spoke it loudly and slowly enough, any “heathen” would automatically understand. They were the ones who asked for cheap American beer in Australia (which had a number of quite good beers, and no, I don’t mean Foster’s). They were the ones who lived in a fantasy world where everything was just like it was “at home” and if it wasn’t, then somebody was doing it wrong (and “somebody” was whoever wasn’t doing it like it was done at home).

In a word, they were arrogant, and I had no desire to be numbered among them.

I’m not trying to suggest that I was some tourist paragon; I was quite likely less culturally sensitive than I should have been, but at least I tried, and I believe my hosts gave me credit for the effort. I was always treated very well by the indigenes I met, and to this day I take some pride in that. I at least tried to be humble and understand my hosts and their culture, rather than be arrogant and instruct people on what they were doing wrong.

Later, I had the privilege of traveling to Mali to visit my dear friend Angie, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in that country for three years and more. Again, I sought to adapt to the degree it was practical, and to learn what it was like there, rather than try to make it just like the place I called home.

Likewise, for the past twelve years I’ve traveled with my family to Hawai‘i and all of us came not to live the way we did on the mainland but instead to explore and discover the ‘āina (the land) and its customs and culture. We met the people where they were and tried to get to know them, we got away from the tourist destinations and activities (although we did some; a luau is really not optional for first-time visitors, and it can educate), we put ourselves where we could encounter the “real” Hawai‘i.

When I moved to Maui almost 10 weeks ago, I did much the same. I avoided the tourist destinations and activities (for the most part). I strove to adapt to the rhythms and patterns and practices of island life. I sought to learn and understand the culture I choose to be a part of.

Today’s epiphany was that as I’ve done this I have continued to think of myself as a guest. I’ve been a good guest, respectful and flexible and humble, but I’ve behaved as if I don’t belong. My customary reserve has been intensified by this, so I haven’t asserted myself, asking to be included in social events or activities, putting myself into social circles, inviting myself along.

Silly.

I am not a guest. This is my home, now; this is where I belong. I am not a guest.

I am home.

ʻIke Pilina...ʻIke Honua

‘Ike pilina
‘Ike honua
‘Ike piko‘u

This weekend I started “Kahua 1A: An Introduction to Culture-Based Education,” a professional development course offered through a partnership between Kamehameha Schools and Hawai‘i Department of Education.

Kahua

1. Foundation, base, site, location, ground, background, platform, as of a house; an open place, as for camping or for sports, as for ‘ulu maika or hōlua sliding; playground area, arena, stand, stage, courtyard course, camp; bed, as of a stream. fig., declaration of principles or policy, doctrine, platform
2. Base of a quilt on which the pattern (lau) is appliquéd; this base is above the layer of cotton or wool. The pili is below it.

It’s a course intended to equip teachers to better understand and serve students raised in or thrust into Hawai‘ian culture, and it focuses on three things, two of which were covered in Friday night and Saturday sessions.

The course is at least a little immersive—every session starts and ends with traditional Hawai‘ian chants and some instruction alternates between Hawai‘ian and English languages—it (rightly, in my opinion) emphasizes the value of indigenous culture and the importance of accommodating a teacher’s practices to the values and practices of that culture. For a haole like me it’s especially important; I want to belong here, and that means finding ways to fit myself into culture as it is and not force the culture to accommodate me as I am.

Yesterday’s session was a bus and walking tour focused on ‘ike honua—a sense of place—we visited both historic sites (Ukumehame, Olowalu, Dragon’s Teeth/Pi‘ilani Lookout, etc.) and places that students either live or hang out (Ukumehame again, Honolua, Ka‘anapali, etc.). We stopped several times to take in the spirit of the place, and even a frequent skeptic like me can sense whatever is meant by “the spirit” of a place.

Each place had a story of its own, as well. Ukumehame has centuries of agricultural history, Olowalu was the site of a bloody clash between Europeans and Hawai‘ians, and Pi‘ilani Lookout was where Ali‘i (“chief” or “leader”) Pi‘ilani went to oversee the outer islands of his kingdom, Lana‘i and Moloka‘i.

Dragon’s Teeth

Pi‘ilani also went to his lookout to release his worries and concerns, the things that might keep him from ruling effectively. The winds at Pi‘ilani Lookout are strong, and the thought was that any concern released there was taken up by the wind and blown away. We were invited to do as Pi‘ilani did and release anything that might be holding us back: to inhale then deliberately exhale, letting our breath carry our burdens into the outer air, three times.

I have made considerable progress in “letting go” over the last three months, but as of yesterday morning I was still carrying a burden of resentment and anger that in some small way was holding me back. I found a spot along the cliff facing the wind and the ocean with the sun at my back, and I centered myself, and three times I focused on releasing my resentment and anger and hurt into the air as I exhaled deliberately. As I did, I felt my heart lifting (it was already soaring pretty high; if it goes much higher, I’ll need to give it the same warning given to Icarus).

Most of you know full well that I’m a bit of a romantic, and that sense of letting go could very easily be a part of that romanticism. Yet this morning I awoke, and probing carefully, the way one’s tongue probes an aching tooth, I found only the echo of an ache where before I felt throbbing pain. Maybe, at Pi‘ilani Lookout, I was finally able to take the next step in forgiving and moving on. I’d like to think so.

We also stopped at the Ka‘anapali Beach Hotel, where we were fed like ali‘i and got to see some amazing artifacts made by the hotel staff during the economic crash; the owners and management didn’t want to lay anyone off, so they gave them work discovering traditional tools and techniques.

Traditional tools

 Poi Board

 Awa Bowls

 Weapons

 Paddle

 Toys for keiki (children)

Friday’s session focused on ‘ike pilina—a sense of relationship—and in that session I got a sense of what may have drawn me to Hawai‘i for so many years and why, despite significant challenges, I feel so very happy.

Among the values integral to Hawai‘ian culture are “‘ohana”—family, kinship group, relations—“kuleana”—right, privilege, concern, responsibility—“kāko‘o”—support—and “pilina”—relationship, union, connection. And pilina is not just interpersonal relationship; it includes relationship with the ʻāina—the land. Pilina is important in Hawai‘ian culture...and it is likewise important to me.

I make no claim to being a great teacher. I am a competent teacher. If I get great results (and I think sometimes I do) it is because I make great relationships with students. An almost proveribal phrase once frequently heard (and lived out) at my former school is, “They won’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” That aphorism fits nicely into Hawai‘ian culture, which additionally has many excellent proverbial sayings (“‘ōlelo no ‘eau”) relating to learning and relationship:

• Ma ka hana ka ‘ike (learning is in the doing)
• ‘A‘ohe pau ka ‘ike i ka hālau ho‘okahi (all knowledge is not learned in one place—“hālau” is a learning environment)
• ‘A‘ohe hana nui ke alu ‘ia (no task is too great when done together)

My students, here as on the mainland (I no longer think of Lancaster as “home”—I dearly love those of you still there and I look forward to seeing you over the Christmas holiday, but I am at home now), are part of my ‘ohana; I am doing what I am great at: fostering strong pilina. My ‘ike honua (sense of place; connection to the ‘āina/land) was not as strong on the mainland, but here I feel it deeply. “He ali‘i ka ‘āina, he kauā ke kanaka”—“The land is a chief and we, the people, are mere servants.”

At the end of Friday’s session we went around the circle, each speaking our “take away” in one word. My word was “home.”

I am home. Come visit!

“Aloha, komo mai!” Welcome!

Roll-Your-Own Luck

It’s been a busy week. Work, of course, a birthday on Tuesday (when you’ve had as many as I have, they tend not to be so momentous), chaperoning a dance last night, a scuba hunt for lobster just after midnight this morning (first day of the season)...it’s been a good week.

I turned 53 on Tuesday. Birthdays have gotten pretty routine; I won’t concern myself overmuch with birthdays, as long as I keep having them. Mine started with a FaceTime conversation with my best friend Wayne, who remains on the mainland. One of my classes sang “Happy Birthday” to me, about as well as you might expect an 8th grade class to sing it, and I treated myself to a burger at Teddy’s Bigger Burger in Lahaiana Gateway:

...but otherwise didn’t do much, and that was fine. I am pleased that at the age of 53, I am as fit and able as I’ve been in probably 20 years. I can keep kidding myself that “I’m not getting older; I’m getting better!” for another year.

This week was “Renaissance” nomination week at Lahaina Intermediate School. Teachers nominate students for a variety of awards relating to academic excellence, character excellence, and improvement in those categories. Teachers also nominate teachers for “Teacher of the Month” awards and students also get to nominate who they consider to be the “Teacher of the Month.”

I’m the “new kid”—I really had no expectations of being nominated by either colleagues or students. It’s a small school, and it is reasonable to assume at a small school that the people who have been there for a while would be favored over a newcomer. I know many students like me, but that does not mean that they ought to nominate me as “Teacher of the Month,” and my colleagues are a long way from knowing me well enough to know what to think of me.

But 10 students nominated me for “Teacher of the Month.” That wasn’t enough to win—the winning teacher received more than 60 nominations—but it really is an honor to be nominated, especially when you’re the “new kid” and you do everything a bit differently than any of their other teachers do.

Any teacher who is nominated by students receives all the nomination forms in an envelope, and reading those forms was both humbling and uplifting. Several clearly indicated that the students need some help articulating their thoughts but they were heartfelt, and a few just made my day. One student said, “Because he’s BEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAST!” Two or three others talked about how I helped them understand things they hadn’t understood before, and one said I was “inspiring.” Those nomination forms are treasures.

I’m really lucky; I love my job and I love my students and I love my home. I take some credit for that “luck”—I am the one who made tough decisions and took real risks—but I can’t (and wouldn’t want to) take credit for all of it. Call it what you will—random chance, fate, karma—I call it God.

Last night was the “Welcome Back Dance,” a fundraiser for the Science Club. I was assigned to maintain the perimeter and keep students from going where they shouldn’t. That meant I spent my time outside (a blessing on many counts).

Sunset, shot between the cafeteria on the right (filled with sweaty middle-schoolers dancing madly) and a classroom building on the left:

After the dance, I joined a few staff members at LuLu’s for an after-dance snack (and, for the drinkers, a cocktail or two). Then I met some local scuba divers at Olowalu Beach to try for lobster; the season opened at midnight.

Conditions were’t ideal—entrances and exits at Olowalu are tricky, it was dark despite a gorgeous full “blue” moon and clear skies, the water was a bit turbid, the swim out was long, and we didn’t see a single lobster—but it was still diving on a gorgeous night in gorgeous waters and it was diving! Wait’ll next time!

I got home at about 3:30 AM and fell, exhausted, into bed. Woke up about 8:30 to this view:

...had a ridiculously huge breakfast (per my usual habit), went down to a nearby dive shop to get some information about trips, buddies, gear, and the like, then went to scout out Honolua Bay, a marine preserve that features (among other things) a Honu (Hawai‘ian green sea turtle) colony.

I didn’t get any pictures of honu—my iPhone is a decent camera, but not for shooting protected ocean wildlife in its native habitat—but here are some pictures of the ocean, the sky, and the beach:

Honolua Bay, looking toward Moloka‘i

Da’ Beach

Just around a promontory; here be Honu!

It’s Labor Day weekend. Funds are tight (payday is “Po‘akolu” Wednesday), so I’ll stick pretty close to home. My one lengthy excursion will be to church (and to Costco for gas) tomorrow.

No deep insights this week—I’m sure I've had some, but nothing leaps to mind—but just “routine.”

Pretty amazing routine, isn’t it?

Ho, Hum

Ho, hum.

I’ve had breakfast (I’m an early riser even when I don’t have to be) and now I’m lingering over coffee—I might even brew a second pot—looking out at a world as new as the morning sun. In the distance, Moloka‘i looms under a cloud bank and this morning, the sky is more overcast than blue.

It’s a beautiful day.

Every day is a beautiful day, everywhere. Looking back, I see. I didn’t always see it when I was elsewhere, but the new perspective that comes of new life illumines both the present and the past. It was never the day that was ugly; rather, it was my experience, and although sometimes that experience was influenced by the actions of others, the choice to see the experience as ugly was my choice.

I’m not sure I will ever be enlightened enough, wise enough, calm enough to take even difficult experiences and see them as beautiful. I am, however, already wise enough (it doesn’t take much) to see that it's possible.

How lucky I am to have learned this while still (relatively) young! How fortunate that I finally followed my heart to the place I could learn it! How close I came to never knowing; to allowing fear of the unknown to keep me in ignorance!

In some ways living in Hawai‘i feels like living in Mayberry R.F.D. Even in Lahaina, a tourist destination visually dominated by resorts and vacation residences, there’s something “small town” in the air. People greet one another with a smile and a wave. It’s customary to “talk story” when together; to establish and refresh a common context.

Yesterday I rode down to Kihei to open a credit union account. Once again, as in almost every circumstance, I was made to feel welcome and at home. The agents who served me were more than just professionally friendly; I could tell that they took a genuine interest in me. The spirit of “Aloha” is just that—a genuine liking and interest in others.

After opening my account, I decided (apropos nothing much) to ride past Kihei. Eventually, I found myself at Makena State Park and “Big Beach.” Coincidentally, earlier in the morning I’d done an Internet search on “nude beaches on Maui” after a friend inquired, and I’d found mention of a “clothing optional” beach called “Little Beach,” accessible from “Big Beach.”

“Big Beach” is beautiful and big:

I didn’t get a close look at “Little Beach”—I forgot my sunscreen—but it looked quite nice, too:

I wish I’d thought to take a picture of a bumper sticker I saw in the parking lot; it read: “Little Beach: A Great Place to Hang Out.”

I admit I LOL’d.

The lesson that’s unavoidable for me here is simply this: It is possible to live a very human life—one where there is an obligation to treat and a reasonable expectation to be treated with dignity and respect and compassion and “Aloha” (“Love”). It is not only possible but desirable for such a thing to become routine; something that can safely be taken for granted.

No, this isn’t Heaven. Yes, selfishness and cruelty and neglect can still be found here. People can be unkind... What’s different, at least in my experience here, is that here those things are far less common than they were in my prior life. I am learning to expect and assume dignity and respect and compassion and “Aloha.”

Ho, hum.