Mary Oliver

Is another one of my favorite poets. I love her love for nature and how her poetry draws me in quietly, making me lean forward with each stanza read, until I am absorbed into her words.

In her poem "When Death Comes" she wrote- "I want to say: all my life, I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.” I wish I came up with that quote myself. But since I didn't, I will continue to let it inspire me and remind me about the life I want to live.

This poem is about her affinity for the sun. An affinity I share with her, but have never been able to put in such words.

The Sun

Have you ever seen 
anything 
in your life 
more wonderful 

than the way the sun, 
every evening, 
relaxed and easy, 
floats toward the horizon 

and into the clouds or the hills, 
or the rumpled sea, 
and is gone-- 
and how it slides again 

out of the blackness, 
every morning, 
on the other side of the world, 
like a red flower 

streaming upward on its heavenly oils, 
say, on a morning in early summer, 
at its perfect imperial distance-- 
and have you ever felt for anything 
such wild love-- 
do you think there is anywhere, in any language, 
a word billowing enough 
for the pleasure 

that fills you, 
as the sun 
reaches out, 
as it warms you 

as you stand there, 
empty-handed-- 
or have you too 
turned from this world-- 

or have you too 
gone crazy 
for power, 
for things? 

Poetry

This gem of a poem was sent to me by Laarni months ago. She knows me and knows my style, or maybe it's just that she has good style that I immediately love, whatever the case, I am grateful. 

I'm bad with follow through, but I'm thinking I might post favorite poems each week... Enjoy

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry
 by Stephen Dunn

Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.

the hurt

grew and grew, like a hungry monster. eating away at care and compassion. eating away at efforts of trying.

it ate up everything. calm nerves, good memories, hope...

and it grew until there was nothing left but a numbness. a vast numbness where one's heart used to lie.

One of my favorite haikus

She was 10. Guarded. Reserved. She didn't want to talk, so instead we wrote. I taught her about the fun and challenge of haikus and encouraged her to try to express her emotions in a 5-7-5 format. She told me she felt alone. I wrote:

On being alone...

She wrote:

I am a pigeon
in a flock of flamingos.
No one understands.

the beginning

it was not loud

no crash
no boom
no bells and whistles

it was quieter
like a whisper
just too soft for me to hear

and so i leaned in
closer and closer
until there was no space
to divide us

descend

I will follow you

into the icy blue depths

without looking back.

role model

i'm beginning to worry about my forties. though still quite far away, they loom in the distance, like ominous gray clouds threatening to take away the sun filled day.

i've convinced myself that my umbrella to shield me from the depressing downpour of aging is going to come in the form of a forty year old female role model. someone i can look up to, idolize and aspire to be like.

i moved to oahu when i was 24 yrs old. that was seven years long ago. if we're thinking about cells and skin, i'm practically a new person from who i was before.

it was shortly after i moved here that i met jana (pronounced jayna). she was 30, but i would have never guessed it. part of that was my naive youth. at 24, thirty seemed olllllld. part of this may have been that on maui, the only people i hung out with were either my age or my parents' age. i wasn't getting a lot of exposure to the generation right above me. and so, 30 was an age i was in no rush to get to. an age i was afraid to get to actually, because to me, it meant getting to a place where i became settled, routine driven, and dulled down. but jana fell outside of the thirty year old black hole; she was pretty, athletic, funny, fun and she lived a life that i thought was cool. finding out that she was 30(!) was like finding hope for the future me.

now i'm 31, and my life, though much different from when i was 24, is also much the same because i'm still me. even if my skin and cells are not the same, the core of who i am still is. i'm still the same curious, awkward, adventure craving person. and i'm still stumbling anxiously but excitedly through life. i think one thing that scared me about the thirties (besides that it meant i'd be old and that i'd look old) was thinking i'd be a much different person. that somehow, as the years went on, i'd find myself stagnant and aged. gone would be the days of silly fun.

and while i can recognize the irrationality of my fears back then, and realize that whomever i turn out to be at 40, i'll be fine with, because add 10 yrs, 20, or 100, i'm still gonna be me. and even if you add the wrinkles, the gray hair and all the sags, i'm still going to be okay. it still feels a little anxiety provoking and i find myself searching for something safe to hold on to. which i've convinced myself will come in the form of meeting some really cool 40 yr old who's going to give me a glimpse into how the future could look for me. who's gonna give me comfort that it doesn't look that bad. that in fact, it looks pretty darn good.

she sits...

she sits wondering if the years are passing her by.

life becomes a giant swirl. at the end of the day everything is fine. good, actually. and in moments, great. but there is a throbbing. a beating. somewhere deep within the inside of her insides, a pulsation that makes her restless. makes stillness intolerable.

a yearning, that has her searching for some hidden answer she doesn't yet know the question to.

one step

he built her a stair
not a stairway
just a single stair
in just the right spot

on the rocky trail
that day after day
leads her to her bliss
her reprieve
her escape

her step up
was his step up

a silent yet sturdy proclamation
i see you
i hear you
i care for you

and now,
each time i pass it
on my way up and down
(to my own escape, reprieve and bliss)

i can't help but smile
and feel my heart melt for this man

i can't help but smile
and feel my heart melt for love,
romance,

and the silent power
of one single step

tangled

the twisty knots of my emotions
sit in a jumbled mess
lodged somewhere between my throat
and the pit of my stomach

the fine lines wrap tightly
around my heart
and inner organs

reminding me of sugi
caught on a coral head
or perhaps lost in the wind

pulled taut
then snapped back
kinked
and twisted

crumpled into a messy ball
and discarded into the bottom
of an old plastic bucket

laying there
buried
under lead, tackle,
and tiny remnants of dried bait

laying there
covered
in salt and grime

i wanna find my genius

maybe geniuses :)

i love erik...

but i've still got a huge crush on jason...

lulls

last week i went out at courts. the winds were up and there were long lulls in between sets.

it wasn't the best day for surfing, but still it felt good to be out in the water. sitting. floating. with no other agenda, than waiting for the right wave, and hoping i'd get it.

i'm not the best at catching waves, and often, i let many go by because i'm not fast enough, not ready, or because i lack the confidence to be like eddie and just go. or sometimes i'm just plain scared. that being said, for as many waves that pass me by, there's always a few that seem to come my way, and there are those moments when it feels like the particular wave i'm lining up for, came just for me.

i love that feeling.

but back to lulls...

currently life feels like a big lull. i'm not sure where i'm going or what i'm doing. i feel like i'm floating. which doesn't feel bad, but i have a sense of anticipation stirring in my soul. as if there's something up ahead. i feel myself readying. and both fear and excitement softly murmur, though i silence them each time, because waiting for the unknown is like all things unknown. confusing and hard to rely on.

but i do get that sense that something's about to come my way. what it is, i have no idea. but it'll bring change. i can feel that much in my bones. a change i might fear, but need nonetheless.

when i surf, i don't always have the reflex and courage to catch the waves that follow the lull. often i get timid. shy. hesitant.

i surf the way i live life. clumsy, and without coordination. wanting something, but backing down. then wishing i had gone. then promising the next time. and so on.

maybe this feeling is just a feeling. a nothing that i'm making something out of. soon to pass and be forgotten. but maybe it's a premonition. and if so, i'm hoping i'll have the courage to grab it, the coordination to ride it and the appreciation that always brings a big smile to face, whenever i'm falling into/riding whatever it is that life brings my way and feels especially meant for me.

What Goes Up Must Come Down- A lesson in Chinese Porn

There's a line in the song Roller Coaster by Kimya Dawson that goes - "My mom says I hope someday you get paid for being Kimya Dawson."

My mom has never told me that, but it's something I often wish. That I could just get paid for being me. Or more specifically, that I could get paid for writing what I write- these whimsical, poorly edited, self exposing blogs. Like Martin Luther King Jr, I have a dream, perhaps not as noble of a dream, but it's a secret dream that one day people somewhere out there might happen across my blogs, ignore the grammar issues and the fact that most of this stuff is not final draft quality, and like what I write. Really like it. Like it so much, they say

More! More! Just as you are. No need to market yourself, no need to learn how to refine your writing; just write! All we want is for you to write, and if you do that, we'll tell you we like it, and we'll even pay you.

The dream actually goes further than my need for money and daily ego strokes. In that dream, there will be something in my words that these people connect to, that feeds them. Food for the soul. Food for the tortured, lost, but hopeful soul perhaps- and those that have an appreciation for that type of soul. In this particular dream of mine, my writing will bring to others that very same indescribable feeling that I feel when I read something catches me in some form or fashion.

And so, to get back to the title of this blog, I was beginning to feel that maybe (a long shot maybe, but still a maybe) the dream was beginning. In the past few months, I've had a new audience of Chinese readers leaving cryptic comments, mostly in Chinese characters followed by way too many ellipses. At first I ignored them, but then I got curious and began google translating their words, which were often proverbial in nature- We're too old too fast, but smart too late.....................; Smiling and happy every day..................; Bless you popular not diminished.....................


I found their comments confusing but I figured it might be a cultural thing and so, I deemed myself not quite smart enough to comprehend, but certainly grateful enough to appreciate their attention. And in reading their comments, I found my spirits going up, my ego nicely stroked and that feeling of "they like me, they like my writing!" coming forward and wondering if maybe the Chinese people really get me.

That was of course until I received a comment that was a direct link to Chinese porn. And suddenly it clicked that maybe there was something fishy about all these other Chinese comments. And so, I googled "Chinese comments on blogger," and found that the extended ellipses at the end of each comment was not just a fondness for that certain punctuation, but rather a hidden link to even more Chinese porn.

Bah!

So while pervy Chinese porn lovers' libidos go up,  down goes my inflated ego and the feeling of a dream being fulfilled.

I suppose it's for the best. While I've always loved the Chinese for their culinary-able-to-eat-anything skills, there is so much I don't know about them, and I'm sure sooner or later I would have done something culturally offensive, possibly been black-listed and maybe perhaps even sought out by the Chinese mafia (if there is a Chinese mafia). I suppose it's safer this way.

So the dream lives on. And on. And on.................................................................

Crutches

I remember once consoling a friend who had made her decision to end her marriage. She told me she didn't feel she had the right to be sad, as she was the one who left. I supportively argued back that she had every right to be sad, for no matter who holds the knife, when two people cut away from each other, they both bleed.


I also remember my dad, once comparing my mom to his arm. She had been away on a trip and he was having trouble sleeping without her. He told me that my mom was like a limb, and that when she was gone, he felt her presence missing, not just in the house, but in his own body. He seemed, almost to ache as he said it.


And finally, I remember my brother, once injuring his leg. It wasn't any type of injury that required an amputation, but it was enough to wind him up in crutches for a period of time. Causing him to need something to lean on and support himself while his limbs healed up.


I think often, once a relationship ends, it may feel as if something's been amputated, or at very least, badly injured, and many of us may feel the need for a crutch. Something to hold onto. Something to hold us up. It's not to say we wouldn't be able to get along without it, it's just to say there'd be a whole lot more wobbling without it, and more periods of noticeable acute pain. With a crutch, the pain still exists, the lack of mobility is still there, it's just slightly less bad.

Some of us find these crutches in vices and distractions. In spending one's self. This may include going out every night and tossing back a few that equal to several. Filling every moment of space with busyness. Going, going, going and trying not to stop, or even slow down, as to keep the mind and aching heart distracted.

Others of us find these crutches in people. Often finding a temporary somebody to fill a space they cannot possibly fill, but in which we'll try to fill them with nonetheless. Because even if it's not enough to stop the heartache, it's something. And there is comfort in having someone to lay down with. In having someone who's beating heart can be felt, when our own hearts have ceased to know how to go on. I think often, we may not even be aware that we use these people for such reasons, we just know we need someone near and grab hold to what we can.

I have in the past used both types of crutches. Something I'm not proud of, but not necessarily ashamed of either.

And sometimes, I've forgone the crutch to find myself bedridden. Trapped under covers. Hiding out from the pain of a love, like, lust, whatever that once was, and became no more.

But somewhere along my need for crutches, I've found one I hope to never give up. Somewhere through the trials and tribulations of living life. Of falling, again and again; I turned to writing to hold me together and help me get through the pain. And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. Every heart pang I felt went down in words. In poems or blogs. Writing was something I didn't sleep with, but rather that came to me in my dreams, woke me in the middle of the night and called to me. Something that made me throw myself, my feelings, my experiences on to paper or computer screen. Somehow it made the pain into something, even if ugly and raw, almost pretty in the right light.

I think some crutches can turn into prosthetics... No longer merely metal and rubber to grab onto each time we rise, but rather something we strap to us and wear, not to take off unless to swim, shower or sleep. The drinking at the bar each night becomes an addiction, a way of life. The bed buddy we used to soften the blow of our latest fall becomes less buddy and instead, turns into a boyfriend or girlfriend.


And I think some prosthetics turn into those titanium limbs... the ones that screw into your leg, fuse to the bone, and become inseparable. Become a part of you that will not be removed, unless of course, ripped savagely from the body or surgically abstracted.

Some crutches, grow into us. Become a part of us.


And though I write less than I used to, I would like to hope that writing is to me like titanium is to bone. Fused. A part of me. No longer there to ease my aches, but rather, just there.

crazy

Sometimes crazy sneaks in.

Like a thief in the night.

Like roaches that scurry away on your kitchen floor.

Like cancer. Infection. Disease.

It takes over. And you.

You.

The person who once was sane, becomes consumed.

And despite what pretty poems one can write; there’s no cleaning up crazy. No darling bow. No fancy dress.

Nothing.

Last night crazy struck at 6:02pm in downtown Honolulu. It wasn't pretty, but the destruction was minimal and there were no fatalities.

I hate suffering the crazies.

For those of you who read my blog, you've probably realized that I have issues. I'd like to think we've all got issues, we're all crazy in some mean or form, but that could just be me trying to make myself feel better.


I remember working with my first paranoid schizophrenic client. I was an undergrad in Greeley, Colorado, tender age of 20. I was on an acute residential psych facility. These kinds of places see your schizophrenics and schizoaffectives, major depression disorders, bipolars, meth addicts in psychosis and several others. Each of these disorders is a person, with a family of origin and many times with a family of their making. Each person lives a life. Each individual who comes through the door is labeled and put into a category describing their type of crazy. Many came already labeled. Already through the door several times before, wherever these doors exist.

My door belonged on the corner of a quiet suburb neighborhood.

I was a psychology major in the last year of my studies and doing my field experience.

The first client I worked with was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. He was older. Had white hair. For some reason, I've always had an affinity for older grandpa like men. He looked the part with his hair, wrinkly skin and physical stature, but his suspicious, angry eyes gave him away. Made him un-grandpa like. I remember before meeting with him, catching a glimpse of him through the window, my heart felt pity, it felt sad. But then, when I walked through the door and caught eyes with him, the pity faded to the background and fear jumped up and lodged itself in my throat.

He told me he was a vet from the war. He told me he couldn't trust me and that the room was bugged. I told him it wasn't and he could trust me. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, and the fear still lodged, now pulsated. I stammered that I was here to help. He told me no. Demanded that the room was bugged and eyed me suspiciously. I told him it wasn't. He said it was. I started to repeat myself again but then stopped, because it suddenly dawned on me that there's no arguing with crazy. And then a sense of calm came.

If I was going to be in here with him, I needed to be with him.

And so I asked him where? And he pointed out the spots. I suggested we problem solve. I knew I had to complete an interview with him and get some information, but I understood his concerns. I wouldn't want to talk in a bugged room either.

And so, we moved our chairs to the other side of the room. We pushed the table against the bugged wall and we spoke in whispers.

It was an interesting and exhilarating experience. Sad too. I felt for him. I felt for everyone that walked through that door.

I can't imagine what life would be like with that type of crazy, and so I suppose I should be grateful with my level. I think it's higher than the norm, but not on the smallest end of the far right bell curve.

My crazy. I'm not sure where it comes from exactly. Perhaps in my emotions. That they're so close to the skin, so easily activated and that they run so deep. For years and years I tried to numb myself. Teach myself not to feel. It didn't work, so then I ran in the other direction. The acceptance direction.

I came to terms with the fact that I am emo. I am sensitive. I am questioning and often anxiety ridden. I am a complete contradiction. Cynical and optimistic. A woman who refers to herself as a girl. A girl who searches for doom while at the same time believing in blissfully happy endings.

Just like my client from long ago, sometimes there is no arguing with me. It is the way it is, and even if all logical sense can tell me otherwise, it still doesn't matter.

My friend Brendt can attest to this. Half our encounters entail arguments. Playful arguments, but arguments nonetheless. Brendt is not crazy. He's the opposite. He's logical, practical. Analytical and goal oriented. He leads with his head. I lead with my feelings. And so, we often end up head against emotions, on some subject in which he feeds me logic and I reject it with feelings.

At the end, he always surrenders. Because you can't argue with crazy. He'll agree to disagree and let me hold to my faith, not because it makes sense, but because it's just the way I feel.

I don't know when I started letting my freak flag fly. When I came out of the closet and declared that I was in fact not completely sane and I wasn't going to hide it anymore. But it was a relief, and in it, I've connected with other fellow crazies. The ones who bank on things they cannot guarantee even exist, the ones who torture themselves needlessly and ask unanswerable questions about life.

Last night at 6:02pm the crazies struck. I found myself overwhelmed with questions about life and love. Once again fear lodged itself in my throat, and pulsated, begging me for an unanswerable answer to calm my nerves. I was desperate to know what my future will be and whether or not I'm making the right decisions now.

I was fortunate enough to find myself in the company of friends. Who listened and watched as I wrestled myself. The self that so often seems to get in the way of... not happiness- I've been accused of being afraid of happiness, of not wanting to be happy, and that's not true. Happiness is easy. It's there every day of my life. In my morning cup of coffee, in my interactions with others, by watching the sunset, seeing a rainbow in the sky, or riding down a sloping wave or steep hill. Happiness isn't my problem. The part I wrestle with, the part I can't seem to settle into is contentment.

And so, on a bar on Hotel St. as I poured out my fears and concerns, and wrestled myself to the ground. While my friends watched and did one of two things one should always do when they're confronted with crazy. (They didn't leave, which would be number one.) They did two. Stayed. Held the space. Were there for me. And even though they could have told me I was being irrational, that life will unfold as it will and that I needn't know all the answers right now, they didn't. They let me have my fears, they pushed the table against the metaphorical bugged wall, moved their chairs in closer, and convinced the bartendar to buy me a shot.

build up

i want to drop my head

my arms

my shoulders

breathe in deeply

exhale

and then just shake.

shake it all out of me.

hickeys

This is not a hickey. It's actually a paintball wound from this Saturday's festivities for Erik's birthday. But it looks like a hickey, and it's making this week's wardrobe one of scarves and turtlenecks.

And it's got me thinking about hickeys...

My first hickey was when I was around 6 yrs old. I think my brother came home with hickeys on his neck and that was how we learned about them. It was a phenomenon at the time, and being fascinated, Kimi and I sucked on our hands and arms until we had the maroonish brands tattooed up and down. I remember getting questioned by our gymnist teacher, who pulled us aside and asked us what the marks were from. I didn't want to tell her, and she probably initially thought that we were hiding a serious secret, because I remember her being very concerned and talking to us in a cooing "it's okay" kind of voice. She even asked if they were burn marks. When I finally confessed she stared at us like we were two strange children. It was an awkward moment to say the least.

I can't remember my first "real" hickey... as in one that I got from necking with a boy... I think it may have been early college... I remember never wanting them on my neck, but secretly enjoying the ones that only I knew about. There was something about them... a sense of ownership, taboo, something... I'm not sure how to quite explain it, and as I try to right now, I'm wondering if I'm branding myself as that same weird 6 yr old all over again. .

Nowadays I can't stand hickeys. Early in our dating Erik accidentally gave me a few during the phase of our courtship when we were like high school kids all over again. I yelled then cried. It was an overdramatic reaction, but it was seriously how I felt.

So you can imagine how it feels to have this nice new mark glaring on my neck... sigh.

The death of a girl who believed in signs

There's a scene in Sleepless in Seattle, when Meg Ryan is trying on her grandmother's wedding dress as she talks to her mom about her fiance. The mom exclaims the way she and the fiance met was clearly a sign. Meg tells her she doesn't believe in signs, and then seconds later, in true romantic comedic irony, as Meg moves her arm and suddenly rips the dress, she turns to her mom in panic and whispers "it's a sign!"

And it was. Because (spoiler alert) she ends up with Tom Hanks, not the dorky loving fiance.

I can relate to Meg's character, as I am often quick to search for the negative signs, instead of the ones pointing to eternal bliss.

I wasn't always like this, once I was a girl who looked at the world around me in wide eyed wonderment, eager for signs that confirmed what I wanted. But that part of me died long ago.

16 years, long ago...

His name was David. He was gorgeous. Tall, handsome. A smile that drew me in. A year younger, which made me hesitate, until I caught sight of his smile again.

I met him on a playful summer's day at Twin Falls, minutes before I jumped off the back waterfall for the first time. I had eyed the jump for a while that day, and knew sooner or later I would take the plunge. He arrived with mutual friends, and as I climbed my way over, and stood at the edge, fear riveting through my body, knees shaking and confidence wavering; he caught my eye and shook his head "no." It was all I needed to push me over the edge. I smirked at him and flew.

When I emerged soaking wet and triumphant, we caught eyes once more and I knew he liked me and I liked him. We hung out for a couple weeks, coincidentally running into each other wherever we would go. Which wasn't so coincidental as his two friends had huge crushes on my sister and friend. While they outwardly pursued their objects of affection, David and I and shyly danced around that line of mutual attraction. All talking lied in the eyes, half smiles, and subtle gestures. It was a tremulous excitement... the silent knowing.

This all occurred the summer following the death of my Grandad. He was a sweet old man, who was gentle and kind. He repaired bikes for the neighborhood kids, loved mint chocolate chip ice cream, and carried butterscotch candies in his pocket. When I was little, he was my best friend. I was always by his side, and it was his hand I always reached to hold. And when we would hold hands, we would make a point to squeeze three times, a secret code meaning "I love you."

When I was 15 he had a small heart attack. He was scheduled for a bypass surgery in order to make things all better. I remember seeing him before he flew out to Oahu for his surgery. I had just finished my second attempt at obtaining my driver's license, this time successful. I visited him in the hospital happy and excited about my newest step toward adulthood. He and my parents all assured me his surgery was no big thing, and so, I casually wished him well probably more focused on me than anything else. Before I left, I held his hand, making sure to squeeze it three times.

He died during his surgery.

Six months later, I was still missing his presence in this world.

The signs...

On a cloudless starry night, my friends and I, along with David and his friends met at Big Beach. We did what normal teens did. Hung out doing nothing. We started as a group until slowly by slowly people paired off...

And then there were two.

David and I.

Alone.

He suggested we walk down the shore, and I agreed, both excited and nervous. As we walked, I stared at the sky. We didn't talk. Just walked in silence as the tension of our attraction became thicker and thicker. I could feel my heart racing as I bit my lip anxiously. I didn't know what to expect, but knew I was excited and having the time of my life. David grabbed my hand as we continued down the shoreline. His warm palms enveloped mine. The silence continued, as we trudged across the sand going with no destination in mind, just happy to be walking together. And then, he squeezed my hands three times. I came to a halt, turned to him, then turned my head up to the heavens. At that exact moment a star leapt from them and fell across the sky.

I was certain it was a sign.

So certain, I let him kiss me, even though he wasn't my boyfriend.

I went home that night feeling giddy. I knew deep down there was something extremely special in store for David and me, for surely the signs said so.

Surely.

Not.

Two weeks later, on a sneak out camping trip, I found him kissing my friend.

I was dumbfounded more than devastated because I just couldn't understand. And so, I decided that signs meant nothing. They were for fools.

Fast forward to now...

In my relationship with Erik, I battle my commitment phobic self daily. I sometimes surprise myself with how many issues I have, and how hard it is for me to be settled. There are days when I am certain about our destiny and others when I feel the future is what it is: unpredictable and unknown.

And it's funny, but the signs that point to yes seem to scare me more than the signs that point to no.

Our signs...

Most of our "signs" are found in the quietness of our daily life... the small things he does everyday to show me I am loved. But some are more symbolic. The messages from the world around, kind of stuff...

I remember on our second date we went for a hike. (The second date is always a turning point for me because it means "hey I actually like you enough to want to get to know just how much I can like you.") During this hike I saw my first ever mountain Naupaka flower. It's a flower I've kept my eye out for since the time I first heard it's legend as a child (http://christy-writes2.blogspot.com/2009/05/unemployment-mondays-ii.html#comments). I had many times over seen the common beach variety, but never before found a mountain plant. To me, the Naupaka flowers are something that symbolize romance and two halves destined to be together. And seeing this particular flower was a significant moment for me.

Perhaps if I was still the girl I was before meeting David, that experience alone would have convinced me that Erik and I are meant to be. It would have saved him from the questioning and doubt I sometimes find myself trapped in; but since that part of me died off long ago, it remains what it is. An interesting and cool coincidence.

The signs, the knowing, the meant to be's...they haunt me. I sometimes feel so much pressure to know my forever right here and now. I feel society and what not push us to believe in a level of sensing that seems more like luck of the draw. Is it really possible for someone to "just know?"

Maybe...

In my life, there are many people who "just knew," that remain together to this day and beyond. But I also know just as many who claimed that same destined-fate feeling that are no longer together anymore. As well as another handful of couples who's fates, as strong as they may seem, still remain unknown. This need to know drives me to points of insanity at times.

Erik and I. We don't know. Even when we think we do. We don't. No one does. Except those who do. But then again, who's to really say?

And so, as I continue to find my footing in the world of relationships, I must remind myself that each day is a new day filled with whatever signs I choose to seek out, and if I focus too much on predicting the future, I might miss out what I know right now.

That being said... this is not in anyway to discount those who "just know"- good for you. Really. This is perhaps, just to nullify my own feelings of inadequacy for not always knowing.

Good luck to all of us.

on forgetting and over-reacting

sometimes it's the easiest things that are the hardest to remember.

like breathing.

in and out.

.......................


stuck.

i couldn't tell if it was the icy cold of the freezer or the fear that sent shivers down my spine.

either way, there i was trembling.

panic struck through me like lightning and instead of remembering the basics, i went off on tangents that did me no good. i thought of macgyver episodes from childhood days and i remembered in one episode he had managed to blow off the door of a walk-in freezer with nothing more than a pack of matches and something else. i racked my brain to recall what the something else was, even though i didn't have matches, so it wouldn't have mattered anyway.

i then tried to remember how long it took for hypothermia to set in. how long one could go with out oxygen. two facts i had never actually learned, but tried to bring forth nonetheless.

i thought about my co-workers just a few feet away, in the warmth of the kitchen, oblivious to my predicament. it was unlikely anyone would come back to the freezer for a while, and in a while, i could be frozen and dead.

hyperventilation started to kick in and i was tempted to scream even though i knew it would do no good.

i pawed at the handle-less door, trying to understand where the handle went. how one was supposed to get out, and then suddenly i remembered.

push.

not pull.

...like i said, sometimes the easiest things are the hardest to remember.

Washing off the day

I crept through rush hour traffic.

It had been a long day. Client after client. Each one with a different story. Each one a testament of strength and overcoming.

I feel honored to work with these individuals, honored to connect with them to the depths that they allow me to, but it doesn't stop me from feeling tired. And today their stories weighed on me like layers of other people's lives.

And so I sat in traffic, contemplating a text from Laarni that promised clean sets.

I had sentenced myself to the Koko Head stairs in order to redeem myself from the bedridden disease that overcame me this past weekend. I blamed sickness but I can't lie. Laziness was tangled under the covers with me as well. I hate it when I waste a weekend and felt I needed some form of punishment and push.

But as I sat watching the clear blue skies and still leaves on trees, I decided to let myself off easy.

And so I rushed home, changed, grabbed by board and made my way quickly to Diamond Head. I flew down the goat trail as I raced the fading light of day, feeling almost giddy with anticipation for what was to come.

The water was warmer than I anticipated and I said a silent "thank you."

Paddle, paddle, paddled out to the line up. The cool, salty water on my skin immediately took me far far away from the day. From the office. From everything but the present moment.

I said a quick and cheerful hello to Nic and Laarni as I watched them catch waves I couldn't quite catch myself. It didn't matter. I sat in awe of the beauty of the sky doing yet another glorious finale to the passing of the day.

Sunsets never cease to amaze me. I hope they never ever will.

I waited.

And while I waited, I played with the clouds. They created shapes, not just for me, but I pretended so anyway. I saw a heart, a phoenix, a walrus. I didn't see a lion or an aligator, but both were pointed out to me. Perhaps the clouds made those shapes just for those particular surfers.

They turned into pinkish orange cotton candy but I found myself too mesmerized by the glowing ball of fire sinking into the horizon. Despite knowing better, I stared at anyways, turning away, only when everything started to get spotty.

I began a haiku in my head:

A beauty so pure...

I didn't finish it.

I caught my wave. And a couple more. Feeling alive as I glided up and down the smooth clean curls.

Feeling humbled and slightly embarrassed as I face planted gracelessly.

Feeling challenged and out of breath as I swam for my board.

Feeling grateful for Laarni as she grabbed it for me each time.

I watch fire turn to ash. Orange brilliance turn to a deep blue gray. I stayed in the water until the sun clocked out and the half moon clocked in.

And up the goat trail I went. Huffing and puffing and smiling.

Washing off the day and reminding myself that I must make time for this more often...

V-Day

Valentine's is fast approaching.


This morning as I drank my coffee, it dawned on me that in all of my almost 31 yrs, this will be the 2nd Valentines that I'm actually with someone for this romantic (okay, consumer driven) holiday. All of my other V-days I've been single.


Like Christmas and birthdays I think there's an inherent expectation to Valentine's day, even if I try to fight it. Call it social conditioning, aka: brainwashing, but despite all of the "nah, I don't care about it" sentiments I keep spouting, I know my feelings will be hurt if I don't get my romantic gesture. I don't want to be that girl, but sadly, I am.

And in truth, I love the idea behind the day. A day dedicated to love. A day demanding romance, gifts, chocolates, flowers, and delicious dinners. I mean, that's waaaay better than searching for stinky boiled eggs, now isn't it? ;) (Just kidding Jesus)


So, one should think I'd be excited for Valentine's now that I have a partner to share this joyous holiday with. But oddly, I'm not. Instead I find myself nostalgic for my single days.


Don't get me wrong, I love Erik and I love being with him.


Love curling up in his warm arms.


Love his sweet kisses.


Love the way he tells me something nice about myself everyday (what girl doesn't love a good ego stroke?).



I love how I think about him throughout the day and find my heart filling with appreciation, find a smile breaking on my face without fail.



I love how we work together as a team. (I make messes, he cleans them up. I break things, he fixes them. He cooks, I eat- it's perfect).



I truly love being with him.



But again, that being said. I miss certain things from singledom.



I miss the excitement. I miss the level of intimacy at which I connected with other fellow singletons. I miss writing about all of the emotions that went with singleness, and the community that I found in it.



As a couple, Erik and I are our own community. We are our gas station, grocery story and public park. Essentially everything I need is within us. He is my home. "Us" is my safe haven.



But it wasn't always like that. Once upon a time I was a nomad without a home. My community was everywhere and nowhere.

Once upon a time, Laarni and I raided each other's fridges on a weekly basis because stores don't sell to single people, and we'd have too much lettuce, tomatoes, etc, to eat on our own.

Malia and I sent messages to each other about the pains and perils, as well as the excitement of our forever single statuses.

Going out was the band aid for loneliness and my phone rang frequently to come to the call of duty for a fellow single girlfriend.

I found a certain camaraderie in those days, and I had a great love for my fellow battle buddies- the ones that could commiserate about attending weddings alone, being asked "why are you still single?" far too many times, subjected to co-workers trying to set us up with someone they knew would be so perfect, but so wasn't. We felt each other's pains and celebrated each other's small joys better than anyone else.

A conversation with a coupled friend might involve me sharing some juicy tid bits and them feigning as much interest as they could muster. (Though I can't blame them, for it was always the same story, different guy).

A conversation with a fellow single girlfriend would lead to OMG! Do tell! Secretive smiles and collaboration. Because when you're single, each person is new, each person is a possible maybe, even if you know deep down they really aren't.

And so, as Valentine's day approaches, I think of how things used to be. I remember both the pending doom, and the silver linings and I smile at days not so long lost. Because back then the only goal for V-day was to survive; to get through the painful awareness that I wouldn't be getting roses, wouldn't be having a dinner, wouldn't be picking a fight because it wasn't quite romantic enough, and that even if I told myself I didn't care. I did. And others did too. And so we did together. Strangely enough, there was something fun about surviving those days. A certain badge of honor.

However, that being said, I am happy to have my man. And on some small level happy for the way my V-day plans are panning out. We actually won't be spending the day together, as I'll be off island and when I return, he'll be at work. But I am looking forward to making up for the missed day, and I'm also looking forward to being awoken by his sweet kisses when he comes home in the wee hours, and I'm tucked in fast asleep, hopefully not snoring or drooling, as I so often do.

Happy Valentine's Day all!

2010 begin:

kissed the boy at midnight

found friends and stood on a roof top with a 360 view of the city

gathered with loved ones and watched the sunrise at sandy's

burned my letter

enjoyed whales jumping

and the monk seal who took a nap right near us

breakfast at bogarts (chicken veggie omlette- yum)

sleep. wonderful, beautiful sleep tangled up in erik's arms and legs

slow lazy time

surfed at sunset with jasmine. it was mesmerizing to watch that big orange ball lose itself in the ocean's horizon.

tried making the mochi soup my mom makes at new years. not as good as hers, but edible!

2010 day one: off to a great start