Signs

If you like, you may choose to accept some events in your life as a sort of foreshadow – a real-world prediction of things to come. I think most of us probably do at some level once in a while. I know I do, although sometimes I’m not sure that I believe in omens as much as I entertain the idea as a form of amusement.

Sometimes, a phone call might come just at the moment I needed it most, or an unseasonably warm day appears and I think to myself, “wow, now that’s a good sign.” And maybe it is, I don’t know. But I think that a life can be full of these signs if we like, or virtually devoid of them. And I don’t know which is better, or if there is such a thing as better, really. In the big picture, I’m not sure better exists or if it is even relevant.

I should tell you that I am the protector of some things. Some things such as my home, my career, my reputation. I protect my wonderful little bear in the ways I can. My sister. And other things, like my childhood memory of lying on the floor in my parent’s home, watching particles of dust stand almost-still in a brilliant beam of sunlight.

I have accepted the responsibility for protecting these things from this dirty and dangerous world, and sometimes I have an opportunity to enhance them – to relive that instant of tranquility I captured so vividly that afternoon when I was eight. To promote my loved ones, to advance my career.

And once in a while, I fail. My sister once entrusted me with a handful of precious items, and I let her down. An orchid died. A box full of her lost son’s belongings became mildewed in my basement.

I have, however, managed to keep that promise to her in one respect. Quinn’s orchid – the other plant she left with me, the one with the dancing yellow butterfly blossoms – lives on. Like Quinn did, it has suffered terribly, and recovered, and suffered again. The move to Hawai`i was hard on all of us, including the plants. Many died outright. But Quinn’s orchid survived, and even bloomed. It’s now come with us to the funky new house in green little Pauoa valley.

But only recently have I actually taken conscious note of an important thing at the new house. Sitting to one side of the rock and concrete retaining walls in my back yard is a patch of Quinn’s orchid growing wild in a rocky crevice. Growing there, three feet long and a foot wide, wild and free for years now, going through its seasonal cycles without regard of people in the house below.

The wild patch of Quinn’s orchid is getting ready to flower. Just now, as we’re settling in, long, still-unbranched spikes two and three feet long arc out of the bush. In a few weeks, we’ll have dancing yellow butterflies. It’s been a wet year, and I expect a good show.

Many things about this house tell me that it will be a home to me, and that I will love it. Its funky “fix me” look, the quiet and friendly neighborhood, the sizeable yard. But I haven’t taken any of that as a sign.

I have chosen, however, to be honored by the welcome of Quinn’s orchid growing wild on an inhospitable rock. And I can't help but think there's an omen in there, that the metaphor for the delicate yet persistant orchid growing on a rock portends of good, good things.

After all, what could be a better sign than dancing yellow butterflies.

The Bad With The Good

I've been wrestling with what bothers me about missing the good ole days. And it's been a real challenge to me to try to figure out why the necessarily regressive politics of "the way it used to be" bother me so extensively.

Today, though, I had an epiphany.

The good ole days weren't just good, actually. They were great. You could leave your door unlocked, you didn't have to worry about the artificial ingredients in your food, and the commute - if there was one - was almost certainly short unless you were a traveling salesman. Your wife could cook, and she did almost every single night.

These days, though, everything's bad for you. Name it, right? You can't eat it 'cause it's bad for you. Under no circumstances would you leave your home unlocked while you're away. And if you're walking alone at night, you've got your hand clenched around your keys just in case you need to jab some attacker in the ribs. Even if you're a man. Right guys?

Seriously, the good old days were great. Who wouldn't want the kind of security that justified leaving the door unlocked just in case the neighbor needed to borrow your shotgun?

My problem, however, is polio. White breeder males seem to have forgotten about polio. My father and mother and many people just a handful of years my senior bear those distinctive polio vaccination scars. It looks like it was probably a doozy of a wound. But white men seem to have forgotten about polio. Must be like childbirth, I guess.

See, polio struck white men. Plenty of them. And although they got to perform the lynchings while they kept their wives at home, they contracted polio just like everyone who wasn't a Caucasian male. So you'd think they might not be quite so nostalgic for the way things were. Because polio was a royal bitch. And that's just for starters.

So, I say give the old white heterosexual men what they want. They want the good old days back, and are willing to sell everything and anyone to get them. And why shouldn't they? The days they long for were kind to them.

We can segregate the schools and busses, bring back prayer in schools, prosecute gays for congregating, and forbid women from voting, just for good measure. 'Cause you know how uppity they can get.

But the dirty sons of bitches better take back polio, too. Cause there ain't nothing in this world that's free, boys.

Ka Makani

Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the significance of being here.

This place embodies so much of what is beautiful about humanity and the planet Earth. And as such things go, it also carries with it a burden of sadness and excruciating loss. Amazingly, these two aspects are inextricably linked.

To avoid being completely overcome, I have to tell myself that Hawai`i’s land, people, and culture are beautiful right now, in so many ways. That these things are unique and wonderful in their own right. And that what will come will come, and that I am lucky to be here in this moment.

If you have a broadband connection, I highly recommend listening to what I've come to think of as the only standard for Hawai`ian radio. Listen to Ka Makani at http://breezeofhawaii.com and click on their “Listen Now” link.

Admittedly, some of it is cheesy. But some of it makes me write things like this. I have never in my life been exposed to so much celebration of place like I have here. The music of the kama`aina is unabashed in its love for these islands, and it is remarkably affirming. So much so that I find Hawai`ian is suddenly my favorite musical genre.