Good movie, some great acting! Jonathan Demme directs, Anne Hathaway is mesmerizing, Debra Winger is the Mom (!)in this contemporary urban cross-cultural wedding, plagued with age-old demons. Warning: for those of you with any family issues :) it's intense, but the very cool eclectic music, dancing and visuals provide essential relief. Hand-held camera work left me at times dizzy and claustrophobic...or was it the wine?
Check out the trailer...
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
election reflection
“ The second most remarkable thing about his election is that American voters have just picked a president who is an open, out-of-the-closet, practicing intellectual” writes Nicholas Kristof in the New York Times .
I’m not sure about the correct order of things remarkable regarding this election, but surely one of them is gaining a leader who comprehends the complexity of our world and was elected without hiding his light under a bushel.
The first election I can remember (or perhaps only heard stories about) was the Don Quixote-esque campaign of Adlai Stevenson in the 1950’s. What I seem to recall is the strange and pleasing sound of his name, and having my photograph taken while wearing a large Adlai Stevenson button. Supported by a choir of idealistic FDR liberals, Stevenson was dismissed as an “egghead” by the Eisenhower crowd. “After one of Stevenson’s high-brow speeches,” Kristof writes, “an admirer yelled out something like, You’ll have the vote of every thinking American! Stevenson is said to have shouted back: That’s not enough. I need a majority!”… No wonder he lost.
Politics and liberal left social change were central organizing forces in the Washington DC house where I was raised during the 1950’s and 60’s. Our family sang union organizing songs in the car to stave off my legendary car sickness, and I walked picket lines with my parents outside the segregated neighborhood amusement park, rather than ride the roller coaster like most other (white) kids my age. My hometown lay barely south of the Mason-Dixon line, yet a world apart from neighboring Virginia with its deep South confederate identity. Who in that era could imagine that a half-century later Virginia would cast its electoral votes for the son of a black African man and a white woman from Kansas?
Strangely, I can locate no memories of the Kennedy-Nixon election, but do recall walking along hot and humid DC streets one August day to join an enormous throng at the conclusion of the 1963 March on Washington where Martin Luther King delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Less than 3 months later, while baking cookies with my girl scout troop, news came across the radio of President Kennedy’s assassination.
Of the 1964 Johnson-Goldwater competition, my memories are of the strange apocalyptic fears the adults around me exuded and the cool smoothness of large campaign buttons. By 1968, I was a 9th grader and old enough to have my own opinions; and to note family generational conflicts; while my father passionately favored “The Happy Warrior”, Hubert Humphrey, my cousin and his wife supported anti-war hero Eugene McCarthy. The country had been rocked and was still reeling from assassinations, first of Martin Luther King, then Bobby Kennedy. I have a strong sense memory of the dark weight that settled on us all that summer at the beach as we sat around a small TV set at night watching the Democratic Party come apart at the seams and in the streets; as college student “radicals” fought with working class police officers, calling them “pigs”. The ballot box was hardly seen as the road to progressive change by most youth, and the wartime economy kept the Silent Majority afloat, so Richard Nixon triumphed over first Humphrey, then McGovern to govern for 1 and ½ terms in office.
Long, hot summer nights continued to mix with politics in my memory. The endless macabre spectacle of the Watergate hearings mesmerized my high school boyfriend and I most nights when I came home from my Italian restaurant job - where I did a mediocre job of impersonating a waitress - the summer before I left DC for college and the feminist awakening of the early 70’s.
As it was for most young people of that time, the Ford and Carter campaigns were a blur of relative unimportance; political pabulum along the continuum of the personal is political. We knew Reagan would prove to be a disaster, but were too busy settling down to raise a family in the wilds of Kalihi, Wai’anae, and Aiea to do more than note the giant sucking sound as the money flowed to the wealthy few at the expense of the bottom and middle many. A smiling Grinch stole Christmas, and the only thing left in Who-ville to trickle down was sweat.
A President from a town called Hope tickled our latent ideals, evoking high expectations, and yes, a glimmer of hope…perhaps we can love again. Who can forget Maya Angelou’s elegant tribute at the Clinton inaugural parade and the sweet soaring sound of the lovely old Shaker hymn: 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, 'tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'twill be in the valley of love and delight. We experienced a brief moment of exhilaration at having an admirable first lady who planned to do stuff, like fix health care, married to what appeared to be a pragmatic progressive of our own generation who could communicate with the good old boys. It was a moment of promise that turned too quickly to talent gambled, opportunities wasted, and progress lost – handing victory to reactionary bandits waiting in the wings.
As the Bushes returned and their ilk flourished, we hunkered down for what Mark (and Doug Adams) describes as “the long dark teatime of the soul”, turning overly cynical, as did our children. Kalei, in 9th grade and wearing a uniform of black, wrote an essay in which she opined there was absolutely nothing she could do about the sad state of the world other than keep her eyes open and refuse to look away from the truth. I often wondered what had become of our youthful idealism, and had we infected our progeny with disappointment or realism or some other unknown contemporary virus. We lost jobs due to budget cuts, savings in the tech bubble, and retirement funds in the stock market. No longer young and single, these things actually mattered. We continued to think globally and act locally but there were days it rang trite and hollow, especially if you happened to say it out loud to the kids, who either smirked or smiled indulgently depending on the day they were having.
Yet here we have arrived at, nay been delivered to, November 2008, in a state I always dreamed of but never quite believed would come. We held an election in which my baby cast her first vote, and my first-born learned that the good guys can win. We all know we got a rough row to hoe, but how can one sum up the immensity of what has already been accomplished by our collective choice of a thoughtful, intelligent, strategic, balanced, real, multi-cultural leader who has re-inspired us to hope, idealism and action.
I’m not sure about the correct order of things remarkable regarding this election, but surely one of them is gaining a leader who comprehends the complexity of our world and was elected without hiding his light under a bushel.
The first election I can remember (or perhaps only heard stories about) was the Don Quixote-esque campaign of Adlai Stevenson in the 1950’s. What I seem to recall is the strange and pleasing sound of his name, and having my photograph taken while wearing a large Adlai Stevenson button. Supported by a choir of idealistic FDR liberals, Stevenson was dismissed as an “egghead” by the Eisenhower crowd. “After one of Stevenson’s high-brow speeches,” Kristof writes, “an admirer yelled out something like, You’ll have the vote of every thinking American! Stevenson is said to have shouted back: That’s not enough. I need a majority!”… No wonder he lost.
Politics and liberal left social change were central organizing forces in the Washington DC house where I was raised during the 1950’s and 60’s. Our family sang union organizing songs in the car to stave off my legendary car sickness, and I walked picket lines with my parents outside the segregated neighborhood amusement park, rather than ride the roller coaster like most other (white) kids my age. My hometown lay barely south of the Mason-Dixon line, yet a world apart from neighboring Virginia with its deep South confederate identity. Who in that era could imagine that a half-century later Virginia would cast its electoral votes for the son of a black African man and a white woman from Kansas?
Strangely, I can locate no memories of the Kennedy-Nixon election, but do recall walking along hot and humid DC streets one August day to join an enormous throng at the conclusion of the 1963 March on Washington where Martin Luther King delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Less than 3 months later, while baking cookies with my girl scout troop, news came across the radio of President Kennedy’s assassination.
Of the 1964 Johnson-Goldwater competition, my memories are of the strange apocalyptic fears the adults around me exuded and the cool smoothness of large campaign buttons. By 1968, I was a 9th grader and old enough to have my own opinions; and to note family generational conflicts; while my father passionately favored “The Happy Warrior”, Hubert Humphrey, my cousin and his wife supported anti-war hero Eugene McCarthy. The country had been rocked and was still reeling from assassinations, first of Martin Luther King, then Bobby Kennedy. I have a strong sense memory of the dark weight that settled on us all that summer at the beach as we sat around a small TV set at night watching the Democratic Party come apart at the seams and in the streets; as college student “radicals” fought with working class police officers, calling them “pigs”. The ballot box was hardly seen as the road to progressive change by most youth, and the wartime economy kept the Silent Majority afloat, so Richard Nixon triumphed over first Humphrey, then McGovern to govern for 1 and ½ terms in office.
Long, hot summer nights continued to mix with politics in my memory. The endless macabre spectacle of the Watergate hearings mesmerized my high school boyfriend and I most nights when I came home from my Italian restaurant job - where I did a mediocre job of impersonating a waitress - the summer before I left DC for college and the feminist awakening of the early 70’s.
As it was for most young people of that time, the Ford and Carter campaigns were a blur of relative unimportance; political pabulum along the continuum of the personal is political. We knew Reagan would prove to be a disaster, but were too busy settling down to raise a family in the wilds of Kalihi, Wai’anae, and Aiea to do more than note the giant sucking sound as the money flowed to the wealthy few at the expense of the bottom and middle many. A smiling Grinch stole Christmas, and the only thing left in Who-ville to trickle down was sweat.
A President from a town called Hope tickled our latent ideals, evoking high expectations, and yes, a glimmer of hope…perhaps we can love again. Who can forget Maya Angelou’s elegant tribute at the Clinton inaugural parade and the sweet soaring sound of the lovely old Shaker hymn: 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, 'tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'twill be in the valley of love and delight. We experienced a brief moment of exhilaration at having an admirable first lady who planned to do stuff, like fix health care, married to what appeared to be a pragmatic progressive of our own generation who could communicate with the good old boys. It was a moment of promise that turned too quickly to talent gambled, opportunities wasted, and progress lost – handing victory to reactionary bandits waiting in the wings.
As the Bushes returned and their ilk flourished, we hunkered down for what Mark (and Doug Adams) describes as “the long dark teatime of the soul”, turning overly cynical, as did our children. Kalei, in 9th grade and wearing a uniform of black, wrote an essay in which she opined there was absolutely nothing she could do about the sad state of the world other than keep her eyes open and refuse to look away from the truth. I often wondered what had become of our youthful idealism, and had we infected our progeny with disappointment or realism or some other unknown contemporary virus. We lost jobs due to budget cuts, savings in the tech bubble, and retirement funds in the stock market. No longer young and single, these things actually mattered. We continued to think globally and act locally but there were days it rang trite and hollow, especially if you happened to say it out loud to the kids, who either smirked or smiled indulgently depending on the day they were having.
Yet here we have arrived at, nay been delivered to, November 2008, in a state I always dreamed of but never quite believed would come. We held an election in which my baby cast her first vote, and my first-born learned that the good guys can win. We all know we got a rough row to hoe, but how can one sum up the immensity of what has already been accomplished by our collective choice of a thoughtful, intelligent, strategic, balanced, real, multi-cultural leader who has re-inspired us to hope, idealism and action.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Election eve and hope springs eternal
I found this piece that I wrote about the night of the 2004 election...
The election…what a downer. On election night, as the tide turned towards Tsunami Dubya, I threw 3 coins and consulted the I Ching. The oracle (and other elders) counsel patience, persistence and the cyclic nature of all things, insisting that any power so blind and arrogant resting on such a narrow foundation, will surely be toppled (or so I interpret their counsel). Hard, though, to watch our children lose their first election--- Jonah cast his ballot while Kalei keenly observed power and politics play out. What manner of world are we leaving them, I wonder? And yet, less than a week later, as we blue adults licked our wounds, two new buttons appeared on Kalei's enormous bag reading “Hilary Now” and “Barak Obama”. Hope does spring eternal!
here's hoping that the girl is prophetic!!
The election…what a downer. On election night, as the tide turned towards Tsunami Dubya, I threw 3 coins and consulted the I Ching. The oracle (and other elders) counsel patience, persistence and the cyclic nature of all things, insisting that any power so blind and arrogant resting on such a narrow foundation, will surely be toppled (or so I interpret their counsel). Hard, though, to watch our children lose their first election--- Jonah cast his ballot while Kalei keenly observed power and politics play out. What manner of world are we leaving them, I wonder? And yet, less than a week later, as we blue adults licked our wounds, two new buttons appeared on Kalei's enormous bag reading “Hilary Now” and “Barak Obama”. Hope does spring eternal!
here's hoping that the girl is prophetic!!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
this too shall pass
Auntie Betty's funeral was today. She was, from the first time I met Mark's extended family, the sweetest and nicest of the aunties, no rough edges, no prickly places, no judgements, no haole hesitancy, just a warm smile and simple acceptance. She may have been the first in the family to have a Caucasian son-in-law. Maybe that helped. Though when I first entered the fam around 1977, it was mainly some of the cousins, the ones my own age who were stand-off-ish. That all feels so long ago, I hardly think of it. These days all those differences between the cousins don't matter so much -- who went to college, who worked construction or hotel, who married Japanese or Okinawan, who married haole or Filipino or Hawaiian, who is good in the kitchen and who can't manage her way around one, all those classic divides, matter less and less, as the aunties and uncles age, as the kids grow up and have their own kids, as we all age and gets less beautiful (2 of Peter's cousins had a hilarious ugly-man contest which we captured on film today), and everyone sort of looks forward to the funerals just cause it gets us all together.
A simple and intimate funeral, the emotion only hit when we walked up to the photo draped with leis, the heavy rectangular urn, and the elegant flower arrangements; when son Thomas struggled valiantly through the enormous lump in his throat to name all those the family wished to thank for their support; when he returned to his seat and let the tears come as his sister, wife and 13-year old son all reached out their hands to hold up his bearish body, to log on to the mutual magnetic field that so intensely connects families at these times, to bring him home; when the pastor announced that "our thoughts are with the family of Toshi Arakawa", and startled, I looked at Mark who, having heard only moments earlier, mouthed "last Thursday"; when the service ended, and sitting right in front of me was Toshi's wife, Aunty Sally, and I asked for the story that anyone in the midst of acute euphoric grief is ready to pour out (and any of us who've been there, is ready to hear): "What was it like at the end?"
We've been to a number of funerals for men in the family, but this is the first for an Arakawa auntie. I had a quick flash of the reality that lay ahead for our family, a ghost of Christmas future with our moms in the Tiny Tim chair flitted past my eyelids and dove back into unconscious before it could do much damage. It went into hiding almost before I noticed it, like a dream that slips away as your eyes open in the morning. Please, God, let me hold onto my precious illusions a while longer.
A simple and intimate funeral, the emotion only hit when we walked up to the photo draped with leis, the heavy rectangular urn, and the elegant flower arrangements; when son Thomas struggled valiantly through the enormous lump in his throat to name all those the family wished to thank for their support; when he returned to his seat and let the tears come as his sister, wife and 13-year old son all reached out their hands to hold up his bearish body, to log on to the mutual magnetic field that so intensely connects families at these times, to bring him home; when the pastor announced that "our thoughts are with the family of Toshi Arakawa", and startled, I looked at Mark who, having heard only moments earlier, mouthed "last Thursday"; when the service ended, and sitting right in front of me was Toshi's wife, Aunty Sally, and I asked for the story that anyone in the midst of acute euphoric grief is ready to pour out (and any of us who've been there, is ready to hear): "What was it like at the end?"
We've been to a number of funerals for men in the family, but this is the first for an Arakawa auntie. I had a quick flash of the reality that lay ahead for our family, a ghost of Christmas future with our moms in the Tiny Tim chair flitted past my eyelids and dove back into unconscious before it could do much damage. It went into hiding almost before I noticed it, like a dream that slips away as your eyes open in the morning. Please, God, let me hold onto my precious illusions a while longer.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
blogger MIA
Yes, I've been a blogger mostly missing in action these past 6 months, a season during which we traveled to Eastern and Western Europe, I quit my job of 12 years, started a new job requiring new skills, with no vacation or sick leave for 3 months; during those first 3 months, I traveled to my sister's wedding in Vermont, followed by a training in Seattle, and then 2 weeks later on a work trip to Pohnpei in Micronesia. Last spring, we began construction of a new house on our land in Waimea, and amazingly it is now nearing completion. The daughter came home for the summer and returned to school + boyfriend in California. The son returned from teaching in Hungary and travels in Europe for only a few weeks before moving with his dog to the Big Island where he and a friend are assisting with final construction work on the Waimea house, working at a Kona restaurant, and camping out in the house. Our mothers needed assistance and attention. Family friends and relatives passed away. The economy took a nosedive and the times they are not only a changin' but without precedence. We so desperately need a new and better President (whose name begins with O and who is not a Muslim-- but so what if he were?). During this wonderful and terrible time of many changes, life got out of balance. Mark and I were sadly thousands of miles apart on our 27th wedding anniversary. Reflection and writing got short shrift as we went into energy conservation and powersave mode. Back in towards balance, back to blogging. Yeah!
The first-born turns 24
Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. At some point in the Fellini-esque dream sequence, as I am showing my slightly pouffy belly to some skeptical persons and insisting that the test was positive, some corner of left brain begins kicking in, and I say "But I don't feel pregnant (and I know what that feels like)".
Yesterday was my son's 24th birthday, the anniversary of my first-born's appearance on the world stage. I started out the day by sending him a text message, knowing he'd still be asleep in our Big Island house, before heading in to work through rush hour traffic. At the end of the day, before tai chi class, I left a voice message on his cell, and got back a text reading "At work mama. Thanks for the bday wishes. Luv ya"
After tai chi, Mark and I stopped for margaritas and a meal, reminiscing briefly about that day 24 years ago, the various people who were there then and where they are now: dear friend Pua who drove us from Kalihi Valley to Kaiser in Waikiki through rush hour traffic with me lying in the backseat already in Transition and feeling every bump on the road; also joining us in the room where Jonah was born were my Bradley childbirth teacher and her photographer husband: wonder where she is now, and do we still have those photos somewhere in our pre-digital collection of shoe boxes?
At the next table, close enough to touch the enormous stroller, sit two young moms, continuously feeding, soothing, bouncing and rocking their naturally manic-depressive infants, surrounded by all the necessary paraphernalia. I never saw the moms eat their meals, nor converse in the adult sense of the word. One of them looked very tired. I thoroughly enjoyed the scene: babies' bobbling heads on still rubbery necks; faces lit with joy each time they re-discovered each other, or mother, or some random hypnotic light in the room; abject misery and tears a moment later, giving way to delight only once mom is out of her seat, rhythmically rocking baby high above those cool-looking restaurant baby seats that work for all of 5 minutes.
Though not as entranced by the show at the next table as I, Mark was easily drawn into free associating about Sargeant Somebody, soon to be deployed to Kuwait for a year, who brought her 1 year old to work recently. Soon Mark's face is imitating the child's wide-eyed stare and chubby cheeks, his hands pantomiming the carefully crafted braids and pig tails surrounding her round chocolate-colored face.
No, we don't miss the babies, and we don't yearn for grand-babies (yet), but they sure can be the best show in town when you have the luxury of just observing these messy little miracles...along with their oh so young, vulnerable and brave caretakers.
Don't worry, girls, I say in my head, before long, they'll be old enough to sit at the table with a little plastic container of Cherrios and a set of crayons and draw on a paper placemat while you get a few bites to eat. Or maybe you'll make the mistake of getting them one of those portable little DVD players, and you won't have to talk to them at all during a restaurant dinner. Then, in the blink of an eye, they'll be teens and won't want to talk to you at all. Time is an illusion and if it exists passes quickly. When you're living in the stressful and ever-present present, these are just words that old folks say. Only those of us on this side of the magic time machine become true believers.
Yesterday was my son's 24th birthday, the anniversary of my first-born's appearance on the world stage. I started out the day by sending him a text message, knowing he'd still be asleep in our Big Island house, before heading in to work through rush hour traffic. At the end of the day, before tai chi class, I left a voice message on his cell, and got back a text reading "At work mama. Thanks for the bday wishes. Luv ya"
After tai chi, Mark and I stopped for margaritas and a meal, reminiscing briefly about that day 24 years ago, the various people who were there then and where they are now: dear friend Pua who drove us from Kalihi Valley to Kaiser in Waikiki through rush hour traffic with me lying in the backseat already in Transition and feeling every bump on the road; also joining us in the room where Jonah was born were my Bradley childbirth teacher and her photographer husband: wonder where she is now, and do we still have those photos somewhere in our pre-digital collection of shoe boxes?
At the next table, close enough to touch the enormous stroller, sit two young moms, continuously feeding, soothing, bouncing and rocking their naturally manic-depressive infants, surrounded by all the necessary paraphernalia. I never saw the moms eat their meals, nor converse in the adult sense of the word. One of them looked very tired. I thoroughly enjoyed the scene: babies' bobbling heads on still rubbery necks; faces lit with joy each time they re-discovered each other, or mother, or some random hypnotic light in the room; abject misery and tears a moment later, giving way to delight only once mom is out of her seat, rhythmically rocking baby high above those cool-looking restaurant baby seats that work for all of 5 minutes.
Though not as entranced by the show at the next table as I, Mark was easily drawn into free associating about Sargeant Somebody, soon to be deployed to Kuwait for a year, who brought her 1 year old to work recently. Soon Mark's face is imitating the child's wide-eyed stare and chubby cheeks, his hands pantomiming the carefully crafted braids and pig tails surrounding her round chocolate-colored face.
No, we don't miss the babies, and we don't yearn for grand-babies (yet), but they sure can be the best show in town when you have the luxury of just observing these messy little miracles...along with their oh so young, vulnerable and brave caretakers.
Don't worry, girls, I say in my head, before long, they'll be old enough to sit at the table with a little plastic container of Cherrios and a set of crayons and draw on a paper placemat while you get a few bites to eat. Or maybe you'll make the mistake of getting them one of those portable little DVD players, and you won't have to talk to them at all during a restaurant dinner. Then, in the blink of an eye, they'll be teens and won't want to talk to you at all. Time is an illusion and if it exists passes quickly. When you're living in the stressful and ever-present present, these are just words that old folks say. Only those of us on this side of the magic time machine become true believers.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
she's home
She's home, sporting wild and woolly auburn dreadlocks atop her skinny brown bod; dragging an enormous ancient faded-red dufflebag with no wheels because her skateboard fits inside; getting a $92 ticket for wearing no seat belt only seconds after hopping in my car curbside at the crowded airport; unpacking her ancient green and white baby blanket smelling of dog pee and a hundred stale spills; telling tales of her horrific ear infection and flu at finals time; smoking the occasional cigarette, yet willing to talk why and how she's almost-quit..."but don't get your hopes up"; pouring out stories, unprompted, about The Boyfriend from Santa Cruz who is no longer a secret; honestly communicating about her multiple monetary mistakes, and even starting to strategize for next year with us-- as if we were in this together; ranting about college system's imperfections and her own less than stellar results, yet remarkably she has transformed into a college student; leaving her room a wreck, but actually sometimes remembering to clean up her dishes; calling with no lead time for rides home on a weeknight, yet offering to help with chores in exchange; assisting when asked without putting it off endlessly, as she says "I still procrastinate, but the quality of my procrastination has improved"; seeing nothing wrong with buying a youth bus at 18 to save money; forgetting a dental appointment and incurring a $50 fine (out of her first paycheck) but getting back on the horse and re-scheduling it for tomorrow (please god, help her remember this time); fixing my malfunctioning clock; skateboarding for transportation with no helmet; making it to her Art Academy teaching assistant summer job orientation; feeling guilty about all the money we're spending on her one moment and cheerfully talking me into buying her a new bathing suit the next. Still a kid, still hard head, yet we are clearly on the trans-siberian bi-polar maturation train. Oh, no! Oh yes! She's home!
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The day after the last day
My last day of work was yesterday, Friday. Half way through the day, I panicked, ready to resign from resigning. I can’t do this! I’m not done… I’ll never get it all done in time! I was, as usual, both wrong and right. I didn’t get it all done, but I was able to leave. Jeanette and Naro stayed as long as they could, helping me carry out to the car my boxes of files, desk side treasures, and overflowing bags of farewell gifts and cards. At 7:00 pm, the last one to leave the building, I walked out the side door into the alleyway, listened to the door shut and click behind me and walked alone to my car as dusk settled on the winding back lanes of Kalihi.
The next morning, Peter and I hopped a plane to Hilo to work on our Waimea house, handle family finances, and spend time with his mom.
As I stood in my mother-in-law’s sunny kitchen, she picked up a white and green ceramic dish she’s had by her stove forever. “I’ve always liked this blessing”, she said, as I leaned over her shoulder to read it.
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
the rains fall soft upon your fields and,
until we meet again,
may God Hold you in the palm of His hand.
--An Irish blessing
My first thought was: I want to send this in my thank you notes to KPHC staff who showered me with gifts, cards and leis at my aloha potluck lunch, at a Lion Coffee health education department gathering, or when they stopped by my office in those final days as I tried futilely to file and finish the un-finishable. The opihi in me is built to cling and clumsy at letting go.
Today I am in mourning for a time in life that is suddenly behind me, 12 years kaleidoscoping the way a long journey does when one reaches the end of it, suddenly seeming short, intense, and, well…over. Perhaps that is the sensation of the brain’s synapses packaging the experience for shrink wrap storage in the full closets of memory. At any rate, I am cross-legged in the closet door, pulling out pieces of the past few weeks, parsing, replaying, and re-living moments recorded but at the time barely felt. I dreamt effusively last night, and while what I recall seems mostly anxiety dreaming, I awoke feeling it was all for the good.
The next morning, Peter and I hopped a plane to Hilo to work on our Waimea house, handle family finances, and spend time with his mom.
As I stood in my mother-in-law’s sunny kitchen, she picked up a white and green ceramic dish she’s had by her stove forever. “I’ve always liked this blessing”, she said, as I leaned over her shoulder to read it.
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
the rains fall soft upon your fields and,
until we meet again,
may God Hold you in the palm of His hand.
--An Irish blessing
My first thought was: I want to send this in my thank you notes to KPHC staff who showered me with gifts, cards and leis at my aloha potluck lunch, at a Lion Coffee health education department gathering, or when they stopped by my office in those final days as I tried futilely to file and finish the un-finishable. The opihi in me is built to cling and clumsy at letting go.
Today I am in mourning for a time in life that is suddenly behind me, 12 years kaleidoscoping the way a long journey does when one reaches the end of it, suddenly seeming short, intense, and, well…over. Perhaps that is the sensation of the brain’s synapses packaging the experience for shrink wrap storage in the full closets of memory. At any rate, I am cross-legged in the closet door, pulling out pieces of the past few weeks, parsing, replaying, and re-living moments recorded but at the time barely felt. I dreamt effusively last night, and while what I recall seems mostly anxiety dreaming, I awoke feeling it was all for the good.
Aloha KPHC -- the week I resigned from my job
The homeless man sits on his sidewalk blanket in front of the closed mom & pop store pouring over some papers and conversing loudly with the voices in his head as we walk by. Chuukese women cross King Street at the pedestrian activated crosswalk, their . colorful appliquéd skits swaying gracefully in the afternoon breeze; Generous Samoan women chuckle and chew their way through KPHC’s Project Zest healthy food demo at Palama Settlement; Walking to my car on Palama Street I pass kids at recess and in May Day rehearsal in the Princess Miriam Likelike Elementary schoolyard where for 11 years we taught health professions students to learn from the children and parents of this unique world gateway community. Down the road, at Princess Kaiulani School, under their signature spreading monkey pod tree, a colorful May Day Court stood in a half circle on the outdoor stage. The mini-King and Queen dressed in royal whites walked with slow dignity across the grass as throngs of relatives with cameras and umbrellas applauded under a hot sun and voggy sky. “Will the families of the King and Queen approach the stage with their Leis of Aloha?” requested the announcer. There was a pause, and then huge men, tiny siblings, and pretty mothers surged towards the stage. One mom, in tight white Capris and high heels, patted her son’s royal cheeks repeatedly with pride, while he looked straight ahead, face impassive, trying to maintain composure. Returning to the 952 parking lot, I received perhaps my last pungent puakinikini lei from the legendary Alice Ramos, and later made sure to consume a piece of her pineapple upside-down cake at the Providers Appreciation Potluck. The remainder of the morning was spent strategizing with Andrea around square formica tables at Lion Coffee warehouse in Waiakamilo. On Friday afternoon, my office is eerily still with no voicemails and few emails, so I settle into the lonely task of sorting through, throwing out or keeping 12 years of files. As if at a wake, I receive calls and visits from a procession of people. In public their voices say one thing, their eyes and hugs another; in my office they question, confide, commiserate, congratulate, and/or cry. I have come down with a cold, the kind that comes when one is letting go. Congestion spins its numbing protective cocoon while inside it feels as if my whole body is crying. All these moments I would normally take for granted are now rarified, precious portraits, fragile fading snapshots to be saved and savored. Wonder what wonders next week will bring?
Monday, March 10, 2008
a dream deferred -- a dream come true
I am sooooooooo excited. This week we spent a small fortune on tickets to Budapest, Hungary, with a couple days in Paris on the way back. We will visit with Jonah who is teaching first, second and third grade Hungarian children in Budapest, and take a trip with him somewhere on the weekend, perhaps to the mountains of Slovakia. All those years while the kids were little I yearned to travel. I looked forward eagerly to work trips which took me to various US cities. And 4 years ago, I made an historic trip with my octogenarian mother and uncle and my 15 year-old daughter, traveling to England and Ireland (with a marvelous but painfully brief 42 hour stay in Paris). So many great things happened on this trip, especially in Ireland, our primary destination, but it was also stressful to travel in such company. I promised myself that one day, I would go back "with adults", but this seemed more abstract than real surrounded by our realities of work, family and income limitations. And yet, here we are, in what would seem to be the most unlikey of times--with uncertainties afoot in both work and finances-- and yet we've just seized an historic moment, an offer we could not refuse, and are following our hearts to Hungary. A dream deferred is poised to become a dream come true. Can this really be happening?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Hey, Democrats... behave like it's a democracy!
"Superdelgates, Back Off" ran today's Sunday NY Times editorial headline, with the abstract: "Democratic Party leaders should let voters pick their nominee". Now there's a radical notion. Author Tad Devine goes on to explain a bit of the history behind the superdelegate thing. They were created to provide the margin of victory to the candidate who won the most support from primary and caucus voters, not to throw the match. With the delegate count predicted to be so very close, the news today is that these super-delgates are being full court pressed by both Clinton and Obama's troops to declare support for her or him even before all the democrats across the country have voted or caucused. If these super-delegated political insiders actually tip the balance and over-ride the popular vote, they will be doing to the democratic voters what the Supreme Court did to the nation after Al Gore was elected president. Democrats will be pissed! I will be pissed! And an awful lot of pissed disenfranchised democrats may stay home on November 4th. I would be tempted, but would probably cool down by November. My 18 year old daughter, on the other hand, is already pissed at the caucus set up which doesn't allow a Hawaii kid attending a Mainland college (or teaching in Hungary) to vote in the primary. If she hears that a few establishment democrats chose the nominee, she, and many young folks like her, may just stay home in droves and we could be stuck with President McCain, the 100 year war, and the creation of thousands of great new jobs at McDonalds.
What happens when you join the capitalist machine
What follows is a disclaimer for the ads that appear on the right upper corner of this blog... or at least the ads that were there when this entry was posted... they change from moment to moment.
What happens when you join the capitalist machine is you get ads for denigrating sexist schlock items like the (goddess help us) "Hillary Nutcracker". I put Google ads on my site, just to experiment with how it works. I don't expect that either Google or I will make any money from these ads...like, my visitor numbers are in the low hundreds, not thousands. I've mostly been amused to see what their search engine yenta matches up with my writing topics: ads for Hawaii vacations, attorneys, life insurance, college loans, even drug rehab programs. But the moment I posted something about Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, I got two Hillary ads, one for her official website and the other, which we shall not dignify by menioning again (said in one's best Katherine Hepburn quaver). Sheesh, guess I've sold out and gone to join the circus.
What happens when you join the capitalist machine is you get ads for denigrating sexist schlock items like the (goddess help us) "Hillary Nutcracker". I put Google ads on my site, just to experiment with how it works. I don't expect that either Google or I will make any money from these ads...like, my visitor numbers are in the low hundreds, not thousands. I've mostly been amused to see what their search engine yenta matches up with my writing topics: ads for Hawaii vacations, attorneys, life insurance, college loans, even drug rehab programs. But the moment I posted something about Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, I got two Hillary ads, one for her official website and the other, which we shall not dignify by menioning again (said in one's best Katherine Hepburn quaver). Sheesh, guess I've sold out and gone to join the circus.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Hillary
Because I greatly admire Hillary, and because you cannot watch this town hall meeting without being impressed by her discussion of the issues and solutions...check out this video replaying right now on her site...
http://townhall.hillaryclinton.com/
(cut and paste this into yr browser till I figure out how to make the link live...)
And then, as a reminder of the deep sexism that Hillary's candidacy elicits, read Robin Morgan's essay Goodbye To All That (#2) - February 2, 2008
http://www.womensmediacenter.com/
(same as above...)
http://townhall.hillaryclinton.com/
(cut and paste this into yr browser till I figure out how to make the link live...)
And then, as a reminder of the deep sexism that Hillary's candidacy elicits, read Robin Morgan's essay Goodbye To All That (#2) - February 2, 2008
http://www.womensmediacenter.com/
(same as above...)
Sunday, February 3, 2008
'Yes We Can' Barack Obama Music Video
Do we dare to hope once again for real progressive change, an enlightened leader, and a winner...in Barack Obama?
Beautifully done YouTube video reportedly made independently of the campaign—by Bob Dylan's son, director Jesse Dylan, and musician will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas.
Yes,We Can!
Beautifully done YouTube video reportedly made independently of the campaign—by Bob Dylan's son, director Jesse Dylan, and musician will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas.
Yes,We Can!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
weather report
"Hey Ma, guess what?". It's Sunday morning, post-yoga class and I'm sitting in Coffee Talk when my cell phone rings and Kalei's name appears on the screen. "What?" I respond bravely, thinking, "oh, God, what next?". "It's snowing!" she replies. "I was doing homework and when I looked out my window I noticed it wasn't raining properly. Then I heard people saying, "It's snowing!", and now everyone's outside in it. Oh, I see Ana out there...ok, Mom, I just wanted to tell you that. Bye!". It's the first time this girl has seen snow fall from the sky, and she called to share the moment with me. How very cool. The excitment was contagious: perhaps my voice rose, because I saw a few folks nearby in the this Hawaii coffee shop smiling, perhaps recalling a lovely snowfall in their past, or one they hoped to experience in the future.
There is nothing like seeing your first snowfall, and to those who grow up in the tropics, the experience can be magical, miraculous, and fearsome. Many years ago I traveled to the East Coast with a co-worker and friend from Wai'anae, and I'll never forget the amazement in her face as she watched snow sift from the sky, lining the lawns and coating the gray tree branches. She was afraid to venture out into it, preferring to sit bundled up inside toasty and warm at the window, watching it fall for hours. More recently I was in Washington DC with a delegation of people from the Marshall Islands when a surprise springtime snowstorm hit. Some of the visitors simply stayed in their hotel, even passing up visits to the Congressional representatives. Others, notably the younger ones, simply had to "go out and explore the astonishment of living", as one of their wise and poetic elders put it. And when I got back home, the college parent's email network was a-buzz with the news of calls from kids about the snowfall--apparently an unusual occurance in this part of Northern California. Expected or unexpected, perhaps it is the job of the young, to help us elders see our truly astonishing world afresh.
There is nothing like seeing your first snowfall, and to those who grow up in the tropics, the experience can be magical, miraculous, and fearsome. Many years ago I traveled to the East Coast with a co-worker and friend from Wai'anae, and I'll never forget the amazement in her face as she watched snow sift from the sky, lining the lawns and coating the gray tree branches. She was afraid to venture out into it, preferring to sit bundled up inside toasty and warm at the window, watching it fall for hours. More recently I was in Washington DC with a delegation of people from the Marshall Islands when a surprise springtime snowstorm hit. Some of the visitors simply stayed in their hotel, even passing up visits to the Congressional representatives. Others, notably the younger ones, simply had to "go out and explore the astonishment of living", as one of their wise and poetic elders put it. And when I got back home, the college parent's email network was a-buzz with the news of calls from kids about the snowfall--apparently an unusual occurance in this part of Northern California. Expected or unexpected, perhaps it is the job of the young, to help us elders see our truly astonishing world afresh.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
the illusion of order
ok, I'm back!
Kalei left yesterday early in the morning to return to her California college. We dropped her off at the airport running a low fever and toting 2 large duffle bags, the one she brought home, plus another holding a long skateboard from Jonah and large futon quilt from Grandma. Today, mercifully, is Saturday, and I found myself cleaning up Kalei's room, putting clothes back into boxes in our 3rd small bedroom, aka the storage room. In the process, I decided to empty out and store in one box Kalei's many bags, totes and knapsacks, her personal artistic creations over the past several years, some of which she pulled out and used while at home over the holidays. Some are unique and beautiful, others ratty and worn, and all were full of small treasures, rubbish, toiletries, pens and the occassional contraband item. I salvaged the disposable contacts lenses, coins and anything that looked like a treasure---as we have a specific request not to throw out any found metal objects. These discoveries revealed no new informations to me, and yet I still felt small shock waves hit my body when I came upon items she would not have wanted me to find. Yet, for the first time, I felt this strange calm knowing that there is nothing more I can or need to do about this now. She is a young adult, making some poor choices to be sure, but they are hers to make. We've delivered our messages, and she knows full well what we think and value and fear. I know for sure that we are a powerful voice inside her head,and try to have faith that in time it will become something she doesn't have to run from. Recalling how I would have responded only a year ago, I felt relieved to be here at this point in time, and not back in the midst of those struggles. Overall, this girl is doing well, still a rebel and renegade, still making mistakes and suffering some consequences, but more successful in school and happier than ever with herself, her friends, and yes, even with us. She stayed around the house quite a bit and we spent an unprecendented percentage of harmonious time together this holiday season. I am sad she is gone, and have trouble imagining not seeing her till the end of May. Yet, as all the books predict, it is good to have the home back, to be sitting in a puddle of peace and reflection, to be back to bloging. So, on this day after her departure, I found myself sitting amidst boxes and debris, weaving a weird kind of closure ritual, re-ordering our home by organizing her things, working within my limited parental sphere of influence, and thus creating some small illusion that perhaps I can bring a bit of order to her brave and chaotic young life.
Kalei left yesterday early in the morning to return to her California college. We dropped her off at the airport running a low fever and toting 2 large duffle bags, the one she brought home, plus another holding a long skateboard from Jonah and large futon quilt from Grandma. Today, mercifully, is Saturday, and I found myself cleaning up Kalei's room, putting clothes back into boxes in our 3rd small bedroom, aka the storage room. In the process, I decided to empty out and store in one box Kalei's many bags, totes and knapsacks, her personal artistic creations over the past several years, some of which she pulled out and used while at home over the holidays. Some are unique and beautiful, others ratty and worn, and all were full of small treasures, rubbish, toiletries, pens and the occassional contraband item. I salvaged the disposable contacts lenses, coins and anything that looked like a treasure---as we have a specific request not to throw out any found metal objects. These discoveries revealed no new informations to me, and yet I still felt small shock waves hit my body when I came upon items she would not have wanted me to find. Yet, for the first time, I felt this strange calm knowing that there is nothing more I can or need to do about this now. She is a young adult, making some poor choices to be sure, but they are hers to make. We've delivered our messages, and she knows full well what we think and value and fear. I know for sure that we are a powerful voice inside her head,and try to have faith that in time it will become something she doesn't have to run from. Recalling how I would have responded only a year ago, I felt relieved to be here at this point in time, and not back in the midst of those struggles. Overall, this girl is doing well, still a rebel and renegade, still making mistakes and suffering some consequences, but more successful in school and happier than ever with herself, her friends, and yes, even with us. She stayed around the house quite a bit and we spent an unprecendented percentage of harmonious time together this holiday season. I am sad she is gone, and have trouble imagining not seeing her till the end of May. Yet, as all the books predict, it is good to have the home back, to be sitting in a puddle of peace and reflection, to be back to bloging. So, on this day after her departure, I found myself sitting amidst boxes and debris, weaving a weird kind of closure ritual, re-ordering our home by organizing her things, working within my limited parental sphere of influence, and thus creating some small illusion that perhaps I can bring a bit of order to her brave and chaotic young life.
Friday, January 4, 2008
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