Sunday, February 15, 2009

The trail beckons

Creaks and groans accompany us along Aiea Loop trail on this bright and windy winter Sunday afternoon. No, it is not our middle aged bones, but the strawberry guava, eucalyptus, koa, and ironwood trees rubbing against each other in the wind as we walk. I am so deeply happy to be here again, in our seldom visited backyard park along the pali, where so many memories reside, where nature brings us back time and again to our precious present.

We pass the place in the trail where years ago Mark and the kids took Mahina-the-cat's remains, and we are comforted to know her bones lie there still. We pass the spot Mark calls "Hi, doo-doo" for the surprisingly sassy greeting a tiny and usually polite Kalei gave a puzzled stranger as he hiked past. At the end of our short hike, Mark as always heads for the bathroom, and I announce "I'll be over here making a mouse-house". The words conjure another Aiea Loop ghost, an end-of-hiking ritual our children insisted upon: building a rodent-sized house of gathered stones, scraps of wood, crunchy brown leaves, needles of thick pine and fine ironwood.

These memories return, not sadly or heavy with regret, but light and easy to carry like my small back pack; they soften and slow our steps a bit, but do not trip us up any more than do the prolific tree roots. Only conscious attention to the present, and a good guava walking stick, is required to navigate the trail gracefully and in harmony with mud, roots, and memories.

It is so good to be here as the afternoon light glistens and sparkles through the complex network of branches, highlights the patchwork of yellows, whites and greens in the valley below, and coats the vista of ridges near and far in pastels petticoats of quickly passing sheets of delicate raindrops.

Life has been in such continuous transition that I can't recall the last time we swam in the ocean or walked in the mountains of our home island. Waiting for life to return to normal, I secretly wondered if we ever would. Yet today, something called me to our neighborhood wilderness, whispering that that life cannot be put on hold, but must be lived starting now...starting here...in your own backyard. Carpe diem! The trail beckoned, and the path while winding, windy and ocasionally wet, was easygoing, and with our guava sticks we walked lightly, carefully, and gently on the earth, putting life back on track one step at a time.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Milo's gone

Last night Mark received a text message from our son Jonah on the Big Island. "Milo was hit by a car. He's dead". Since the day Jonah adopted this pug-faced poi dog from the Humane Society, everyone has loved Milo. Kalei cried out "No!" when she called this morning, and I told her the news. She said "Jonah needs that dog".

Jonah and Mark exchanged a couple one-line emails, and Jonah said to "give him a few days". At such times, he doesn't want to talk.

It is hard to believe that Milo is gone. Though this is hardest for Jonah, Mark and I are surprised how much grief we feel -- for our son, and because we loved our "grand-dog" who brought so much delight to our family.

Living with the sorrow today, I found myself reading Thich Nhat Hanh's "Peace is Every Step". He offers some simple words to say with the breath:

Breathing in, I calm myself
Breathing out, I smile
Dwelling in the present moment,
I know this is a wonderful moment!

How can such a fucking terrible day be a wonderful moment?! I yelled in my head. It is so dark and painful to know that my son is suffering.

Because we have been through other losses these past few years, our family has been bound together by our grief. Jonah and Kalei's sorrow is ours as well. In the midst of this sadness, I cannot help but feel grateful that my son is such a deeply loyal and caring man who does not love lightly. This assures there will be more love and sorrow and joy in the years to come.