An Exercise in Humility

Glancing at a current issue of Vanity Fair, not one but several celebrity questionnaires assault my eyes. And it’s not so much the responses they have given (though I discover, if words reflect accurately, that Matt Damon seems a decent sort of human being) – but it’s more the questions themselves that prompt my own inner Interviewer to grasp the stub of a pencil lurking in her French rolled coif and, licking its tip, gaze penetratingly and directly at me, gauging my response as she queries, What do you consider your worst trait? Under that ironclad stare, I know in a millisecond that wiggling out from under an honest answer is futile. Instead without hesitation and yet humble in the assurance that I do not enjoy admitting it, I let spill judging others.

Being aware of this quality or fault, depending on how one perceives it (discernment seems more palatable somehow than judgment) has ultra-sensitized me to the importance of accepting others on their own ground. Knowing this and practicing it as best I am able, I still admit that the first thoughts proverbially popping into mind when confronted with new faces are the instant laser-like assessments: What a space shot! Doesn’t she know how transparent she is? He ought to get over himself! These are three separate examples of what might leap to mind. Of course I don’t articulate these thoughts and to my credit I do sit with them – striving to understand why, knowledge and faith be damned, this remains such automatic behavior. I don’t like to harbor such conclusions, yet at this stage in life I am comforted in finally accepting my warts and all. If I can’t be kind to myself, it is most unlikely I will ever fully cultivate this trait toward another.

One of the greatest gifts in garnering wisdom is not in knowing how perfect I am, but that I am able to acknowledge and accept my imperfections, escorting them into the light of awareness. When I dare to delve into these less savory aspects, I come up with mirror images for the examples offered, above: In tribute to the spacey among us, I am able to admit to an outright sense of envy that I can’t be looser and less hyper-responsible. As pertains to transparent people, I am far too vulnerable and fearful that I will be targeted because of my own lack of guile. And as for labeling egomaniacs? Deep down inside I possess some pretty reliable resources. In fact I have been told by friends that, before they knew me, I appeared somewhat aloof due to a perceived aura of competence and confidence. So much for perceptions, as my judgments clearly arise from fear of my own inadequacies.

The real kicker to this whole diatribe is that I have often been hailed as one of the least judgmental of persons by others. And, since paradox seems to be a human trait, I would agree – demonstrating what I have suspected for some time: just as no one can truly know the angst I suffer at the hands of my own inner demons,  I can never fully know another. After all, I’m still working on knowing myself! And no matter how honest I try to be, I only share aspects of that self that are appropriate in any given moment and situation. Factor in the other seven billion inhabitants of the planet, and it’s easy to surmise that labeling people prevents me from allowing others to reveal the treasure trove of their complexity.

 

 

image: viva la vibs

Throw My Suitcase Out the Window

Sometimes I find myself wrapped in envy for those who seem to possess a sort of natural foundation to their lives. Not the ones with the two-point-five children and a house in the suburbs, no. That holds no allure for me whatsoever. It’s more a kind of self possession – a poise and grace – that seem to seep from their skin as sap from a sugar maple in springtime, running freely into buckets lashed to their sides to be rendered down into a divine elixir. It’s as if these people possess access to an abundant stamina – paradoxical restraint resulting in a protracted harvest, a nurturing sort of aura to be drunken in by those fortunate enough to encounter them. An ex-husband yearned for this from me, as if it could be coaxed like water from a dry well. As if water could be exchanged for fire.

For better or for worse, I am not one of these people. Instead I’m rather like a stately redwood nurtured by the mist – reaching, reaching massive fertile branches upward, snatching segments of brilliant sunlight, irrepressible as the fog is furtive. I want full disclosure of and for myself and others while guarding a thick privacy like a bear holed up in her den. Yearning for both complicates the structure I seek to establish – I keep wondering if I’ll ever grow up and into one of these steady folk. Then I gaze about me at the wilds of my existence – the freedom of both inner as well as outer Creation – and I begin to breathe like a bellows gulping air, and it feels right somehow. As if to roam is my home.

Perhaps I kept bumping head-on into the American Dream, inculcated in me from that early age of the dawning of an emerging sphere for women, the mid to late nineteen fifties. The free spirit taking root in youth from that time period forward presented me with a house-wife-less archetype, that of the Wanderer, carefree flower child moving through fields and forest, gathering harvest and shelter from the good earth. Donning the cloak of the Faery Queen, I broke faith with a stoic upbringing and, covered in loam and moss, rolled like the proverbial boulder, clumsily careening around sapling and stream. I learned to survive not in comfort but in ever-changing conditions, settling my restless spirit like a hen sitting on her eggs.

More circumspect now as expected, given a distant view of the gates. Yet I can’t remain in the manse, however tempting – there is ground yet to cover. And though I might long to thrust my feet by the comfort of the hearth, there is danger that I might languish too long, become too complacent. If I lose apperception for the vibrating thrum of birds’ wings or the smell of leaf mulch, I let go of life. A steady inner world is ever at the ready, but my time here as an explorer will end, and right now I don’t want to miss a thing.

 

2000 - in the redwood forest

 

You Can’t Go Home Again

In the 1940′s, Thomas Wolf wrote a book called You Can’t Go Home Again, in which protagonist George Webber quips, You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.

Since that time, the phrase has proved profound enough that it has worked itself into the American lexicon. And though I myself have returned to the place of my birth a scant several times in the forty plus years I’ve remained in absentia, I have purposely avoided it.

My excuse is that this location lies in a metropolitan area, and I possess a sensitive rural soul, one that threatens to bail from my body when entering the conditions of chaos cities invariably thrive upon. And yet. Something draws me thither, as if somehow I could return to gather fragments of that lost girl and transport them, faerie-like, back to my forest dwelling; stitching them together and reattaching them to my physical template with sticky invisible threads. Then somehow I could breathe that long, jagged sigh, fathomless as the ocean’s depths and as broad – while the psychic dust settles me into a renewed sense of wholeness.

Fantasy: I return, ambling alone through the gentrified older part of downtown, popping in here and there, smelling and sensing textures and aromas wafting from the many stylish boutiques. Complimenting restored buildings that used to house the retailers of my youth, I fasten upon architectural flairs missed while young. Energy generated by pedestrians fills me with kinship for humanity. Strolling aimlessly, I tuck into an Indian café for hot chai, then surprisingly find myself on the east side of town, having walked the full ten miles I once accomplished with ease. Popping into a bistro to enjoy a hearty meal, I phone a cab to return me back where I began. Then driving along the wide boulevards, I recall a time when Japanese gardeners punctuated landscapes of the wealthy, transforming lawns and trees into lovely zen-like gardens. Stopping at a now famous art museum, my vision is catapulted by colors and textures skillfully manipulated by the artists’ hands.

Reality: I enter the city from the west end, trying to find a parking garage in the crush of madness that is Old Town. Women my age cover grey with dyed blond that is pickup stick-straight, echoing shapeless hips and too much plastic surgery. I feel as though I’ve entered an alien world. Once I exit the garage, I’m aware that parking will cost me at least twenty dollars for a couple of hours, so I’d better scuttle along. Boys skateboard through carport puddles, cigarettes hanging from mouths tender as unbroken horses. I am jostled and swept past like a ghost, snatching glimpses of storefronts now bearing identical names to those in Any downtown, Anywhere. The old structures of my youth remain, but tacky awnings in primary colors yank them out of time and into a cookie-cutter present. I’m so depressed and deflated, I return to my car, panicked that I might not discover a stretch of grass or trees where I can sit and recharge. And where on earth is the bathroom?

 

What I am looking for ... (credit: oldpasadena.org/blog)

 

What I get ... (image credit: oldpasadena.org/blog)

And if you ever want to know what song runs through my head as I ponder this post, it’s Can’t Go Home, by Brewer & Shipley. Unfortunately, copyright infringement prevents me from linking you to this lovely ballad via You Tube. Sorry ’bout that

My Funny Valentine

Love isn’t just for Valentine’s Day anymore. Or for lovers. It’s not even reserved for family members any longer. And for that, I am grateful. Somehow between my teens and my fifties we have collectively begun to transfigure the concept of love on a global scale. In the center of this massive shift in a Warrior’s world stands the most unlikely figure. His Holiness the Dalai Lama embodies the biblical adage of one voice crying in the wilderness; a plea that is most assuredly being heard.

I don’t mean to step on toes here, in fact I’m all in favor of anything that improves one’s outlook on humanity, one’s peace of mind and perceptions of the planet in general. That being said, most organized faiths – try as they might to elevate mass consciousness – possess at their base some pretty mercenary underpinnings. The Orthodox let it all hang out, from leaders bedecked in robes, crowns and jewels to magnificent worldwide halls of worship. (A love of architecture has drawn me inside many of these breathtaking structures.) There are also fundamentalist sects that invest coffers of tithing in order to manipulate political agendas. Then there are the holy wars, which Christ himself could never have imagined – and history notes these are not the sole purview of Islam. Take the Roman Empire, for example. Or the bloody backstory of the British Isles. Power and money corrupt, from the top-down.

Fast forward to the twentieth century, when a simple monk from a newly conquered nation located in the hinterlands of Asia emerged onto the world scene – embodying The Redeemer as thoroughly as anyone imaginable – praying for his country’s enemies, the Chinese, while simultaneously living in exile in neighboring India. We as a nation perked up and took notice. We as a world began drawing nigh to his aura of kindness and compassion. Enraptured, We the People pasted Free Tibet bumper stickers on our cars and on road signs and buildings – even as our country launched into yet another series of wars in foreign lands. Blue-white-red-green-saffron flags began appearing in profusion. We who marched and shouted, fists in the air – or tuned in and dropped out – now Listened in a generally clearheaded fashion. [Even the Beatles, who were duly credited for a mass transit into Eastern thought and borders, were still exploring concepts through mind-altering drugs. And no judgment – many were doubtless swept along in readiness for that which was to come.] If we wanted Peace (and countless in our numbers did), we began to anchor an understanding that this was to be a quiet process which needed to take root in each individual.

What I can say with abject certainty is that my generation’s most altruistic aim really was to bring Peace to the People. We got our revolution. And while many of us pondered retrospectively thinking it might have failed, at the same time we couldn’t help but notice seedlings pushing persistent heads up through cracks in the concrete: Women’s rights to their own bodies and voices. A reduction in the number of volatile nuclear energy plants. Safe houses for victims of domestic violence. A change in the 4-foods grouping. A softening of the macho image, giving men permission to accept more of their humanity. Awareness of global warming and our part in it. A need for sustainable living. Holistic medicine. A Black President. The popularization of Quantum Physics. The Occupy Movement. A new kind of Hero in an unassuming man from Tibet.

I’m not sure everyone shares my view that the man with the smiling eyes is conquering the world with his humble presence. But tell me: when was the last time you used or heard the word compassion? A cursory survey of my own mental landscape assures me next to never, before the Dalai Lama strode onto the scene. Now it is ingrained in my daily consciousness, even though I am not a practicing Buddhist. Those I love benefit from it, and those I don’t claim to like very much may benefit far more. For I now possess an awareness as never before that even my thoughts have the power to heal or harm. It might be the product of aging and life experience, but I’m pretty sure it is in large part due to the life’s work of this unselfish, unpretentious soul.

 

Q: What is the thing about humanity that surprises you the most? A: Man -because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices his money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he doesn't enjoy the present, and as a result he doesn't live in the present or the future. He lives as if he's never going to die, and then he dies having never really lived.

 

BOTH SIDES NOW

A few years back, I turned on the radio to hear an old favorite sung slowly and sensitively by Caecilie Norby, unknown to me at the time. It moved me to ponder each line, each word, each syllable as never before. That song was Both Sides Now, by the artist Joni Mitchell:

Bows and flows of angel hair

               And ice cream castles in the air,

               And feather canyons everywhere,

               I’ve looked at clouds that way.

               But now they only block the sun,

               They rain and snow on everyone.

               So many things I would have done,

               But clouds got in my way.

               I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now,

               From up and down and still somehow

               It’s clouds’ illusions I recall;

               I really don’t know clouds at all.

               Moons and Junes and ferris wheels,

               The dizzy dancing way you feel,

               When every fairy tale comes real,

               I’ve looked at love that way.

               But now it’s just another show,

               You leave ‘em laughing when you go.

               And if you care, don’t let them know,

               Don’t give yourself away.

               I’ve looked at love from both sides now,

               From give and take and still somehow

               It’s love’s illusions I recall;

               I really don’t know love at all.

               Tears and fears and feeling proud,

               To say “I love you” right out loud,

               Dreams and schemes and circus crowds,

               I’ve looked at life that way.

               But now old friends are acting strange,

               They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed.

               Well something’s lost but something’s gained,

               In living every day.

               I’ve looked at life from both sides now,

               From win and lose and still somehow

               It’s life’s illusions I recall;

               I really don’t know life at all.

 

It really is true that when I reflect on life these days, I often recognize my current perspective as my story, doubtlessly different from the actual experience lived through – and certainly a departure from another’s memory of the same event. Just when I think I know something for sure, I realize I’m only acknowledging part of a greater picture.

Warmth and tenderness are but two facets of human nature. Bits of anger and bitterness also dwell within, even though some might not like to admit to these unsavory qualities. Looking at life from both sides allows one to mature and grow through witnessing stretches between the agony and the ecstasy of experience. Conceding to both sides can be accomplished simply by observing, without harshness or judgment, what is. Rejoicing in the light, one acknowledges the inevitable shadows. From both polarities, one gains perspective, balance and eventual integration into a sort of muddy middle.

Life is not black or white, nor are clouds, nor is love. Nothing in our world is that static. I daresay most of us live life as though on a fulcrum, constantly balancing give and take, win and lose, up and down, joy and pain. If we plunge to any extreme with the hope of remaining there, aren’t we are bound for disappointment, not to mention discomfort? Think of the hapless particle in an accelerator – the more the physicist tries to isolate and pin it down, the faster it moves.

Life itself does not have the power to disenchant us – only our illusions about life can do this. One can choose to recall certain poignant moments, but they may prove to be illusory when scrutinized more carefully. Two people involved in the heat of romance may experience rapture, but would no doubt describe the experience quite differently. Two siblings remember a parent or a family event on their own terms. Who is right? Who has the final say on the nature of experience?

 

Observing clouds is most interesting when they're moving in opposite directions. (north shore, Hawaii Island)

 

 

 

 

observation

Athena, as she appeared to me in 1974

I am aware of the things which grind a person down with age. And while none of us will live forever in these bodies, aging gracefully is possible and, to me at least, desirable. I think most would say stress is a killer, but I suspect there’s a bit more, as I discover a body over fifty becomes increasingly intolerant of the insult of ignorance. By that I mean what I choose to ignore, whether it be:

The blessing of movement through regular exercise that is nourishing and fun.

 

husband Chris and Chudleigh the yoga dog

 

A good night’s sleep (and this certainly cannot be minimized, I am clear and present this morning to attest).

 

If we could all sleep like dogs, I'm pretty sure we'd have it made ...

 

A good diet, meaning a deep and more profound listening to the body and less overriding of its warning signals. Whole foods are best accepted and digested, naturally, and cooking to enhance freshness and flavor is part of that, for me. (The stuff I did in my twenties would likely kill me now. If I only knew then ...)

 

 

our Hawaii kitchen

The deep need to love and be loved. At this point in my life, I find myself insisting that relationships be reciprocal, as I am much more cognizant of the amount of energy required to maintain them.

 

friend Rebecca and me, looking like street urchins on our last day before leaving Maui

 

Boundaries: it is helpful for me to gauge interaction with a yardstick of respect: both respect for others as well as my own self respect. Pushing my boundaries invariably results in feeling drained. I don’t say yes when I mean no (see my post on this), and parcel out my time in order to be as fully present to others and to myself as possible. And though I’m not always successful, more often than not is good enough.

 

volunteering dog massage at the Kohala Country Fair with vet Jody Bearman

 

I am sure there are many more aspects I could enumerate, but these jump out as the most obvious. Oh, spending time in nature every single day is the best cure for any blues or illness I know. Since I came of age at eighteen, I’ve always chosen to live in the countryside, close to the earth, starry heavens at night, and the sounds and smells of species other than human. And while I love people, some can be unintentionally inconsiderate in their drive to discover distractions to the urging of life’s unfoldment. Allowing myself balance between downtime and social interaction is perhaps the greatest gift of all. 

 

On the road into town - clears a person's mind, wouldn't you say? (Mauna Loa looms opposite the west end beaches of Hawaii Island.)

 

SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A PARTICLE, SOMETIMES A WAVE

photo of me riding down "The Long Hill" - by Emmy Strong

 

The morning begins, as many do these days, in chaos. When I feel this scattered, I jump on my bike and ride ten miles or so. This helps me get into my body, into a rhythm, slowing my mind and allowing scattered thoughts to settle into cohesiveness. Lately however, even this is a challenge.

Today I almost got blown off the road by two tractor-trailer trucks passing at high speed on our narrow stretch of highway. Although the shoulder is adequate (why the Ironman Triathalon is held on this side of the island), the turbulence created by that passing causes my heart to flutter and my gut to sink to my feet. Survival mode kicks in, I breathe, focus, continue my trajectory. All is well until I reach tiny Hawi town, where tourists swarm and car doors spring open sans forethought. Meanwhile, passing cars try and navigate two crosswalks and numerous ice cream-licking jaywalkers. I continually practice a Qi Gong exercise designed to ground and protect me, and it does help. But I’ve never done it virtually continuously until today. Next stop, Kapa’au, where a minivan veers toward me with no oncoming traffic threat. My skin prickles. Shake it off, keep on going. 

Sometimes I feel like a magnet, whether cyclist or driver, and I understand how trying to avoid something sometimes leads to its opposite. I think of quantum physics’ Law of Attraction, that we move toward where we place our attention. Then at the end of my ride, before heading up The Long Hill toward home, two cars intersect – one turning, the other speeding up – just as I try and make the turn to give myself a bit of oomph up that grade. I can count on three fingers the times this has occurred in the six years we’ve lived in this location.

I consider the old advertisement, Is it me, or is it Memorex? Sometimes I am truly given to wonder. And I know this has an explanation in science, most recently revealed in this experiment where seeds are planted with “love” and “hate” or “you’re ugly” written on their containers. The ugly seeds really do grow into little Gollum-like creatures, while the loved ones flourish. With this in mind, is my own inner turmoil projecting out into the world, attracting all the psychos on the street? Or am I picking up on the general chaos out there and it’s affecting my ability to remain anchored? I never really know, but I suspect it’s a bit of both.

 

Quantum Physics explains Law of Attraction – fascinating. And a button to skip the ad at the beginning of the video.

 

 

Paradise By the Dashboard Light

A former client once quipped that expectations are like premeditated resentments. I can’t help but notice what a recurring theme this is in my own life.

When I was young and living in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, the biggest treat for me was when Dad would wake us up at four in the morning to load up the boat and/or car in readiness to experience wilderness. Whether on land or sea, plunging into the wide-open always swelled my heart to overflowing with a sense of meaning, of purpose in Being. And yet our father was a paradoxical man: if any of us seven made a false step, even unwittingly as children do, the trip was canceled. Time and again I resented the gods for placing me in a family that stymied my sense of impending joy. I ached for the kind parental images captured in the television box – white compliment to my black existence.

In retrospect and after having journeyed almost sixty years into this life, it is clearly a paramount lesson to release expectations and enjoy life as it comes instead of trying to bend conditions to my will. In doing this, I am often pleasantly surprised by the spectacular. Before I possessed hindsight, I did not realize that my spirit was in training. For in order to fully participate in the here and now, I cannot be delving into the precipitate of my past nor flitting about in an unknown future.

And so it is that I venture out in Paradise without prediction or conjecture – striving to remain in the present moment while allowing for the possibility of what might present itself  – while not attaching myself firmly to how that might play out. And it is here, in the interstices of space and time, that I often experience more magic than the average bear.

Journal: Sunday, January 29, 2012: We head out from our home on the north shore of Hawaii Island to Waimea town’s Mana Road. This bumpy four-wheel drive road is accessible courtesy of Parker Ranch, one of the country’s largest working cattle ranches. One of us drives while the other jumps out to let dogs ramble and/or to open the various gates chained to rein in livestock. The first leg of the road is often laced with fog:

 

cattle in the mist

 

This misty collection of gentle slopes nestle around the base of the great Mauna Kea’s back-side. Visitors must keep reminding themselves that they are indeed in Hawaii, but residents originating from the mainland’s wooded areas seek respite in these hills. Just before the next gate, we encounter these lovely creatures:

 

We stop to visit, and nobody shies away from us or the camera: horse nose

 

Finally we arrive at the crest of the road and enter the forest. One of the first sights that jumps into view is this stand of bluish eucalyptus seedlings, christened by the light of day to show off an unusual hue:

 

 

The subtle interplay of light and shadow is always most apparent to me at this juncture in the trail:

 

 

And although we care for three dogs, the only one we brought with us from Maine is Chudleigh the chocolate Lab. Originally from near Maine’s Canadian border, he always rocks out with pure bliss when his feet hit the forest floor:

 

 

Anyone disputing the Sacred has only to enter this grove of trees to know It to their bones. (And for those who are very astute, there is a spirit face in the lower left quadrant of the photo.)

 

 

With just a dite of imagination, anybody can see face(s) in the bark, just below:

 

 

Walking slowly in a forest gives a person time to marvel at what lies above as well as below:

 

eucalpytus seed pods & leaves

 

Mister Rock Face

 

Leaving the forest, and I wish I could show you more, we head onto that gnarly red road – down the slopes toward an eventual meeting with the Saddle Road and the National Park’s entrance to Mauna Kea’s summit. I think to myself, Wow. Another amazing trek through one of the most beautiful places on earth. It’s strange though – we haven’t seen any owls or turkeys or geese or wild boar like we usually do up here – though we did hear some pigs screaming. Oh, well – I’m content to have experienced the beauty of this place, once again. And on we go …

 

 

One of the many sights along this stretch of road are the dinosaur bones of old cast-off machinery. What I least expect to present beauty, does. And then my husband points his finger at the Pueo, circling an adjacent field. These are the Hawaiian day-flying owls which we often see while on this road, and we are not disappointed:

 

 

Then as if the heavens themselves open up and cast mana to the weary, wild turkeys begin to cluster, here and there:

 

 

It takes effort to suspend disbelief as, walking right up close to our truck, two wild boar piglets stand and pose for their portrait – then scurry back in the underbrush to their mother:

 

 

Sinking once again into the shrouded mists surrounding the base of the mountain like a Hawaiian version of Avalon, magical island of my Celtic heritage, we have touched the arcane and it is enough.

 

 

This is one of the last vistas we behold before hitting the tarmac, once again. Saddle Road, here we come! But if it is endings we are expecting, Madame Pele, Goddess of fiery volcanoes, holds yet more in store. This small cinder cone volcano lies beyond the outer limits of Waimea town – reminding me of the old television series The Outer Limits as much as anything ever could. Completely unretouched in the light of the setting sun:

 

 

Returning to civilization is a gentle thing when views such as these bathe eyes in wonder:

 

 

Waimea town lies still in the days’ waning light, as I glance backward in a bid of farewell to the magical Mauna Kea …

 

 

This parting shot brings to mind lyrics from an old ‘eighties tune:  Thought it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night, I can see Paradise by the dashboard light …  A hui ho. Until we meet again …

 

Breathless

our neighbor Boolcow

 

The day is breathless. Tiny green buds on the windward side of a stark Stemmadenia unfurl quaking, tender leaves. Dogs lounge in the morning sun while horses and cattle graze languorously in neighboring fields. Cardinals whistle and trill while doves bob in mating ritual on high tension wires. It is uncommonly quiet in North Kohala, an acrid volcanic haze tingeing a normally bright blue horizon to dull grey. Day-long sneezing jags and aching lungs mark the passing of yet another Kona front, but Nature seems not to take affront. When stalled tradewinds fail to strip moisture from the soil, grasses soak in dew, palpable right down to roots.

 

Paklan

 

For all our winter precipitation, landscapes still thirst for water as long as trades are up. Knock these gusts back for a week or two and even without direct rainfall, shrubs, trees and grasses explode in growth and raging color. A stately mango maturing into its fourth season burgeons into rosy dreadlocks of flowers as it prepares to fruit in profusion. Pink grapefruit and Meyer lemon waft heady aromas. Delicate paklan blossoms saturate the night air while passionfruit weep from vines like goose-golden ova. Two acres of field grasses, untouched by blades for over six months now, are in need of weekly pruning. A normally tempestuous ocean lies flat and listless, save for humpbacks breaching and slapping offshore. Still the most striking feature is the absolute motionless air. The flat aching quiet.

 

horse lips

 

Voices are gone – those normally careening on crosscurrents, whether human or netherworld. Vog seeps into the tiny folds of my aging brain; thoughts are difficult to form, physical movements are dull and laconic. Yet I remain a child of the earth, my body attuned to her heartbeat and pulse. Change is undeniably afoot, and after the flurry of the past few days, syncing myself with her rhythms allows me to pause and regroup, even as my sinuses rebel. I will know – as has happened time and again when the trades pick up – to make ready for whatever lies ahead. But for now I may lay down the inner yoke, only to shoulder it willingly once again when the time is ripe for harvest.

 

Kona-hazed sunset

ENTER THE DRAGON!

 

• Dragon year begins on the run – guests arrive in a taxi two days before the calendar turns. To city folk, this fails to raise eyebrows. In a world of island living however, paying $140 for cab fare seems a bit insane. We are located an hour from the airport and deliver explicit instructions to all guests far ahead of arrival. This couple waits to make plans, five thousand miles from home. No rental cars are available on touchdown in Kona; there is a PGA tour in town. The following day I transport them 2-1/2 hours across the island to Hilo to land a car, as they’ll be here for two weeks and will need one. My battery dies after dropping them off. Long story with the best possible outcome: helpful people, speedy service, great value.
• Next day, other guests materialize unexpectedly. I somehow forget to place them in my computer calendar, and suspect syncing up is a technology I need to embrace. Great chat with both daughters – the grace of a day now history.
• Awaken at 3 a.m. on The Day of the Dragon with so much to do, it is wise to begin. Letting dogs out, I settle into the morning’s email. Our little cattle dog’s howl starts me to my feet; after all we have four guests next door who likely appreciate their vacation rest. In comes the pack, fresh from flushing out mongoose and such. The stench on the small one is unbearable, and into the shower she goes, as I strive not to awaken Chris who will have a full day himself. The four leaf clover in this day follows:
• Two calls from our realtor in the past two days produces two house showings: one new, one for the second time. Today and tomorrow, though our guest house is full and will, of necessity, be on display. Perfectionism is out the window before it constellates into mist, never mind raining down upon me. There is no time for it to appear on my mental horizon. Kismet.

How much wiggle room exists within the confines of human skin? Dragon must be testing this, as I sprout wings or webs or land to grip earth with clawed feet. Dancing with the Dragon is bound to be challenging, and I’d best be ready. Along with kinesthetically acquiring sensible limits, there is also the making of choices based more on discernment than being carried aloft on impulse. And grounding – the need to root firmly to the planet even as my mind whizzes off in ten directions at once.

Knowing the boundaries of flesh instructs, even as it produces anguish in a mind conditioned to extremes of self discipline or flights of fancy. Yet simply labeling a proclivity as rashness or immaturity removes me from the experience of it. Muscles hold memories of fight or flight; of shortening and lengthening. If I diminish the importance of my body’s ability to carry me through this life, I fail to acknowledge how and what it synapses to the brain. This negates my ability to register and recall feelings and sense impressions which prevent me from making the same mistakes over again.

Oh, Dragon – I suspect you are here to teach me more than I know. I won’t forget to continue searching for the jewel hidden under every stone – of the blessing inherent in each challenge. I welcome you!