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...

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.