Travel blog

I'll be keeping my travel journal here. Please feel free to follow it :)

Pre Travel- restless nights

In less than a month, we'll be leaving on our trip. I feel like there's a giant clock counting down and I worry that I won't be able to get everything done in time.

When I was a child, I would love to spin in circles, as many and as fast as I could, then come to a sudden stop and feel that dizzy off balanced feeling, as I tried to stable myself and wait for the world to catch up with me. As an adult, I have a tendency to dizzy myself with thoughts. They spin and spin, only they rarely stop, and thus, I'm left with sleepless nights.

There is a fear that seizes me in moments when I stop the spinning and let my emotions catch up. It makes me want to smile. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to seek cover. It makes me want to jump up and down and clap my hands. Sara reminds me that this fear is a good thing. It's what we feel the night before the first day of school. It's what we feel before dropping in on a big wave. Before a race, or a cliff jump. As we fall in love... in all the big things in life.

In the still of the night, I try to breathe deeply, slowly. My mind and my body run in opposite directions. One wants to stay on, the other wants to turn off. I toss and turn and try my best to sink into that quiet energy that lulls me to sleep. It doesn't work, and so I toss and turn some more. And as I do, Erik stirs awake and asks "what's wrong?"; his voice tired and and heavy. I reply- "I'm scared." "Of what?" he mumbles and I can hear him trying to be as patient as possible, though frustration leaks through his voice. Tonight I say "I don't speak Spanish." He pulls me in closer and hugs me tight- "go to sleep" he begs. Feeling guilty for waking him, this night and all the other nights before I try my best to stay quiet and still as I wait for my nerves to calm down and sleep to come.

In the morning I am tired and dreading the day ahead. Erik greets my rising with a kiss, and tells me his solutions to my fear. This morning's solution includes bringing a small 7 inch laptop with us with Rosetta Stone on it, so I can learn on the road. The day before, I was worried about baggage, no- not my emotional baggage, the actual bags we'll be taking. That day I found an email with a bunch of links to backpacks. Though I don't want to push him too hard with my insomniac neurosis, I have to say, I love that he does this. He always tries to fix things for me. He feels my fears and tries to qualm them.

The nights that are hardest on him are the nights when I say "I don't know what I'm scared of, I'm just scared." That gives him nothing to work with. Sometimes on those nights, he'll playfully wrap his arms around my neck and pretend to strangle me.

Moments in time, in the rain

Yesterday it stormed. Big time. Driving was scary. God was crying, having a massive bowling match and someone up there was taking pictures. 

As I left my parking garage from work, heater blasting, soaked to the bone, because I still have it in me that I just don’t need an umbrella, I saw an Asian couple donned in wedding attire at the corner of Hawaii Theater. It was 7:08 pm, and the lightning and rain flashing and pouring down reminded me of something out of a movie. My driving slowed to a crawl and I stared slack jawed, wishing I had a camera because it was just so pretty and poetic in the way that contrasts often are. 

I remember once seeing a photo of a young girl holding a flower in the forefront, behind her, the chaos from a plane crash. There was something haunting about it, something appealing, and something distasteful and visceral. I stood there for a good half an hour entranced, eyes going back and forth from her eyes and the wreckage behind her. Till this day, I still don’t know exactly what I felt about it, but I remember it clearly a decade later.

As I drove past this couple I yearned for my camera, and sent out a silent wish their way. I hoped they were the type of couple that would find fun and humor in their predicament; that there would be just as much beauty in their moment, as I was observing from my window view.  Then I turned to my right, and saw two photographers calling out directions from across the street, and the feel of the whole scene changed. The mysterious allure faded, and after a split second of reconciling that I wasn't observing an authentic moment, I quickly shifted to feeling stoked for the artists across the street. My wishes went their way- that they would get their shot… and that I would see it someday in the future... and know.

i will say

that in our finest moments 
we were beautiful


like a belly laugh
or the perfect satisfying meal


like a lightning storm
in the middle of summer
 


or the tears one sheds when life is hard
and the way hearts can break over and over again



or maybe, just as we were

two pairs of mischievous eyes
staring back at one another
dancing with excitement
for all that life could be

Untold stories

Perhaps one day I'll tell the story of the guy who came into my shop with a heart in his pocket. As I rang him up for a bottle of one of my favored Spanish reds I saw it's outline through the cloth of his pale buttoned up shirt and I couldn't hold back my curiosity. I pressed for details, asking him to quite literally place his heart on the table.

And he did. He displayed the paper heart with note attached and gave me the gift of a small but beautiful glimpse into his life.

It was a story that made me smile. At love. Specifically and uniquely his.

Tickled, I quickly went outside to share the story with friends. But my timing was off and the interest was not there. Though, to be honest, even more than that, I think it was because I was meant to savor the encounter alone. Sometimes a sacred thing gets diminished by sharing. Growing up in Hawaii and having my secret playgrounds become not so secret, I know this all too well. Conversely, sometimes something becomes more sacred when shared with others...but in this case it became evident that this was meant for me to keep.

After all, there may have been something lost in it's telling. Perhaps I wouldn't have done it justice, or it wouldn't have been well received in all of it's not so glorious glory. Because really, it was just a simple story... there were no lives saved in it's making, no grand conquests of triumph over tragedy, no earth shattering realizations. It was fluff. Like that lone cloud that sits in the sky, just a wisp in the air, not even capable of rain, and hardly big enough to take shape.

But sometimes fluff is that perfect distraction to direct your gaze up toward the heavens. To take in the expansiveness of the big blue sky that lies behind it.

And perhaps it is a story I will not tell. Perhaps I will let it be what it was- a passing moment. A flash of beauty. A glimpse within. For just as there is value in the telling, there is also a quiet beauty in all that goes unsaid.

the shelf

I went down to the ocean to surf today but I sat at the top of Cliffs and watched the waves go from pretty good to not so good in a matter of 15 min. I just sat there staring. Unsure of what I wanted to do. 

Feeling a sense of defeat for not being able to fully motivate myself, I decided not to go and headed back home.

Today I feel broken. Splintered. Or maybe shattered. Like the glass door of the beer fridge at Oliver, that I want to replace but am told not to, as it continues to work just fine. On slow nights at the wine shop I spend my nights staring at it. I remember the night it was broken. I saw it shatter, and yet remain intact because of the two walls of tempered safety glass on each side. But it remains broken on the inside and for all the world to see. A pretty mosaic. A translucent jagged puzzle. People who come into the shop often share that it looks so cool that way, and I always smile and nod, but the truth is, deep down inside I keep wondering if one day soon, it’s all going to fall apart. I'm anticipating the day when I will have to clean it up.

Like the glass, my type of broken is jagged and can cut, but it's not quite so pretty. I have no passerbys stopping to oooh and ahhh. It's just there. Raw emotions tangled up inside of me not knowing their way out.

An adolescent girl is haunting me. She’s not a ghost, but could easily become one if her depression continues to worsen, and her will to live keeps slipping. 

She’s been through so much and my heart overflows with pain for her sorrows. Overflows with rage for the injustice and unfairness that’s fallen and continues to fall upon her. And of course there is fear too. A vat full of it, because I am tasked with helping her step away from her hopelessness and into a better place.

I don’t get to have these feelings at work. They go on an imaginary shelf that sits behind my heart. She talks, I listen. My feelings come up and I automatically shelve them so I can be there for her. So I can be calm enough to take in all that she doles out, and so that I can have enough compassion to house all of her feelings, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, that will help. I shelve everything I feel so that I can listen openly while ignoring the urge to scream. I shelve everything, so there is enough quietness so that maybe, just maybe the right words will come. So that maybe healing will happen.

At the end of yesterday, I just don’t know. I cringe at my smallness. At how limited an hour a week is. What dent will that make? What difference? I just don't know...

And today... the emotions that I put on the shelf topple forward. 

Surfing is not the answer. 

But perhaps a hike is…a long arduous hike, in which I put one foot in front of the other, to get from here to there. To look. To breathe. To take in many moments of infinite appreciation and disdain for the fact that life is so cruel and so beautiful all at the same time. 

pre travel continued...

I keep thinking about that big open blue sky we'll see as we're traveling from Hawaii to Bolivia. My mouth salivates with delicious anticipation.

When I was in the midst of completing my 30 before 30 list, it was all I could talk about for the 6 month period. I was focused, excited and driven. But over time, I also became a little self conscious that I had become a 30 before 30 list talking machine and that I would soon exhaust everyone around me… that someone would put a pillow over my head to drown out the noise. But I couldn’t stop. I was in obsessed mode.

Now I’ve got travel on my mind and it seems to be all I can think and talk about. It is always there, in my thoughts, permeating through every part of my life. I drive my car, and think about the busses we’ll be catching. I eat food and start to wonder what my favorite meals will be. I look at the sky and wonder how different it will look way over there.

But more than that, it’s my hopes, my fears, and everything that must be done that cycle through my mind at high speed. It feels like there is so much to do and know before we actually leave. How do people actually do this? I’ve been reading blogs from other travelers, but haven’t found the little details about the lead up. The neurosis involved.

My stuff…

As of now, all 3 jobs of mine have been alerted of my intended leave. I feel so incredibly lucky to have such great supportive employers. I can’t really believe my luck and feel a great sense of gratitude that almost makes me teary eyed when I really allow myself to sit with it. It also makes me feel incredibly guilty, but I try just to focus on how grateful I am. Each job will allow me to return and pick up work again. I don’t need to resign and reapply; I just get back and go back to work. How lucky is that?

I’m not sure of what to do with our place. We’re only gone for 3 months… which makes it hard. It’s not financially worth it to pay rent for the 3 months we’re gone. While Erik and I have found a nice home in this place, we’re also not extremely attached to it. But leaving and coming back essentially homeless does present its problems. We might be able to couch surf for a week or so with friends, but being a burden is not a comfortable thing for me, and the idea of scrambling to find a new place scares me. We will be desperate and being desperate has never fared well for me.

The idea of having that safety net of a home to return to is comforting. The idea of getting rid of so much of our belongings and simplifying, and then starting anew is refreshing. It’s hard to know which choice will be the right one. 

I’ve been putting off calling my landlord to alert her of our upcoming trip because I just don’t know what to tell her and I just don’t know what we want… 

And there's more... but I've rambled enough for today.

pre travel

I have been staring at pictures of lands unknown. I have become a peeping Tom into the great big world out there. Staring into the windows of other people’s captured moments. There is a quiet excitement to the process.

As I plan this trip, my excitement grows, along with a tremor of vulnerability. I can’t quite explain it, but there is a squiggle (yes, a squiggle) of emotion that moves somewhere between my gut and the center of my heart. It makes me feel small; like an ant, peering up towards this world, so big and most of it so unknown to me. It makes me feel emotional. As if I could laugh and cry at the exact same moment. It makes me catch my breath and get quiet.

I don’t understand how I am supposed to live my life. It’s a question that I ponder frequently and never fully arrive to an answer for. I know the fundamentals… I live it with love, integrity, respect, joy and adventure. And compassion. And more.  But what about the rest?

The idea of travel itches something in me. This idea that I could explode into a thousand particles across the plain of the great big world and all would be okay. That itch, however, then stirs something else up. Is it doubt? Is it reality? Is it???? I don’t quite know… It’s this sense of limitation. I can’t travel forever. I don’t have the money or resources for it. I can’t travel forever. What about my work? I love my work. I can’t travel forever. Just… because.

But I want to.

Staring at photos of Bolivia (this is where we’re thinking we’ll start), I can’t help but want to be gone forever. Or at least a really really long time. 

3 months is starting to feel much too short.

Click this link for photos of Salar De Uyuni- http://www.atlantisbolivia.org/tunupagallery.htm  A place I can't, can't, can't wait to see. We're going in the dry season so we might not see the water covering it, as in these pics, but I am keeping my fingers crossed and praying for some rain.

Our current plan. Bolivia-Peru-Ecuador-Columbia-Venezuela.

i wish to be

as peaceful as the moss
that lays itself against the forest floor and walls

i wish to be
as silent as the moon
that shines brightly in the dark night

i wish to be

okay

i wish to be
a strong tree
standing tall against time.

Another birthday...

They say the world was born in fire... my 32nd birthday was born in water. Salty water. That consisted of sweat, tears and ocean goodness.

Another year passes and I am even more blessed than ever.

Changes

Things are different now,

she said. And the words hung there

like lead in the air


 

Mysteries

There. Nestled on the the mountainside lies a rock with "Justin Rutka, 1942" carved into it. I don't know who Justin Rutka is, or what it was he was doing in 1942, but as I attempted to hike the Koko Head ridgeline I found myself intrigued enough to jump off the path, trudge over the brush, and climb in for closer look.

After a few quick camera shots I let my fingers trace the carving- about one inch deep and cool to the touch despite sitting in the the glaring sun. My curiosity grew. What tool did the carver use? Was it Justin Rutka himself, or someone else? Why the date? Why this spot? Did the sun shine brilliantly like today? Or was the carver spared with a cloud cover and cool trades? Did they hum or sing a little song as they set about their task?

It's been a week since the hike, and I still find myself intrigued and curious about this Justin Rutka fellow...

This isn't the first time I've been compelled by the random and simple mysteries of life.

My first memory, though I'm sure there were many before this, was when I was about 8yrs old. One day, on the simple playground of Pukalani Elementary School, kids lined up against the chain link fence staring at an old wooden red house that sat on top the hill of what is now the Kua Aina subdivision. Before it was a sea of family homes on subdivided lots, it was just a grassy knoll where a rustic forgotten house stood all alone. I remember catching wind of the stirring energy, and joining up to where my peers stood staring. I asked what was going on, and was informed that the house was haunted, and several of the kids had caught glimpse of the ghost that lived there.

I'm not sure how long after, but eventually, Kimi, our friend Coral and I found our way to the abandoned house and ventured through. The spooky fear we initially felt peaked as we wondered through the empty rooms making our way across the creaky, and in some places, missing floorboards. My memory eludes me, and I can't quite recall what is real or what I've added and embellished to it over time, however, the image of old furniture and the remnants of a once lived in home drift foggily through my mind.

As like so many sensationalized things in life, the hype at school faded in about a week and with it so did the excitement and intrigue. Also when Coral's parents got wind of our adventure, they banned us from going back due to fear that we might fall through the floor or hurt ourselves in some other way. They also explained to us in that dull adult way that lacks mysticism that it was nothing more than a forgotten structure, no ghosts, no hoopla. And so, the mystery faded. However, every now and then I remember that house from a the vantage point of an 8 yr old child peering through the school's chain link fence, and I still picture it sitting perfectly there on that stark hill. When I conjure up this image, I often catch just the slightest glimpse a middle aged motherly ghost who winks and smiles back at me.

Another lackluster but at the time completely compelling mystery was the Old Maui High School, located above Ho`okipa. It was rumored to be haunted, and as a high schooler, there were more than a few nights that my friends and I dared each other to leave the safety of the car and to brave the old abandoned school. We usually ended up huddled together creeping our way toward the entrance, perhaps a bit further in before becoming frightened and fleeing, often screaming the whole way our way back to the car. We were certain we could feel the spirits that inhabited the area.

I loved the Old Maui High School and while I appreciate the restoration that's currently being done to it, I loved it most as how it was in those high school days. In the light of the day, I would walk through the corridors and classrooms and let my eyes take in the havoc of abandonment and nature's invasion. With it's over turned desks and chairs, banyan roots and other plants growing over and throughout, along with broken glass and graffiti, I found it dreary and beautiful. I became obsessed with the mystery of why it had been left in such a way, and was convinced that the answer must be something deep seeded and hidden. I remember researching archives at the library, and coming up with no other answer than something about a water line break and the fact that it was too small to function as a high school. At the time I was convinced there was more to the story, but the answers never revealed themselves.

As time goes on and I get older and lose my mysticism, life's little mysteries become dulled. An abandoned old shack or institution is met with a practical hypothesis... gone are the days of haunted houses. I now think up the water line break or the size factor myself... I don't see glimpses of the ghosts that inhabit them, nor do I find myself scared and running back to my car.

But every now and then, the curious child that loves a good mystery peaks out, and I find myself compelled all over again.

Thank you Justin Rutka 1942...