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!!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?