A yogini at large

“No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good examples are followed. A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees. The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind themselves.” ~ Amelia Earhart

There are two small, drab-colored birds perched on a branch of the lime tree across the lanai from me. Nestled among the bright green leaves sits the bulge of a very ambitious, woven-palm-frond nest, about the size of a small melon, which curiosity tempts me to peek inside for signs of baby-bird-life. I resist the temptation, and let my gaze linger on the fluttery activity of the mature birds. I never see them enter or leave the nest, but I know they are wary of me, the one who occasionally pulls a ripe lime from a branch near their labor-intensive aviary.

Historically, we have contracted our property managers to knock down nests from the nooks and crannies of our cottage eaves, where, left unaddressed, birds will leave a mess of droppings and debris. But I have no heart for destroying the judiciously constructed nest in the lime tree, and this streak of empathy could be the result of having just read about kindness in the Daily Om blog to which I subscribed at the beginning of COVID. (I highly recommend it.) Sparing the nest and the potential lives of the eggs inside is a very small thing, I know, but, as the saying goes, charity begins at home. Though scrubbing up bird droppings from the deck suggests that “no good deed goes unpunished”, it also seems a small price to pay for letting the birds nest in peace, as it were.

With “kindness” as this week’s theme, an internet search yielded the Hawaiian word lokomaika’i. The Hawaiian Convention Center (HCC) blog provided me with insight as to how this value translates into civic life. The mission of the HCC reads quite differently from its counterparts in Vancouver, Edmonton and other mainland convention centers that I surveyed briefly:

“From beginning…to end – from meeting you with lei and aloha, to coordinating with your team and providing the best solutions for your event while brightening your day with an island treat or experience, to our aloha and mahalo goodbyes – we unselfishly give and share what we have to offer, and extend our talents with friendship and warm-heartedness…

 “An essential element in helping us to accomplish this is lokomaika`i.  The translation for lokomaika`i is to always act with generosity and kindness toward others. Lokomaika`i is an extension of aloha and love.”

To me this is simply an example of Hawaiian culture and tradition translating into a business setting — a business serving other businesses while setting an example of kindness and generosity that they hope, as Earhart wrote, will have a domino effect. It is not the fault of other North American centers that they don’t speak the language of “aloha and love” that is peculiar to Hawaïi. Even here in the islands it is often more of an ideal than a practice, but it is only by putting them into practice, as the HCC is doing, that one can experience the true meaning and value of those ancient Hawaiian ideals.

Reflecting on the aforementioned ideals led to something of an epiphany this morning. (Now to see if I can put it into words). It dawned on me that kindness, like empathy, compassion, love and other lauded qualities, is a power that, like a river, flows through me as much as from me. If I offer a kind word or deed to somebody, if I am more generous and forgiving, I am channeling a certain energy that is a fundamental part of me. It’s not something external to me that I can acquire and then pass on to others like food or water. Or indeed, money. It’s more of an energy than emanates from a place deep within me, a place that connects me to the source of life itself. If I block it, if I decide not to say or do what my heart or conscience prompts me to do, the world will be none the wiser — but also that much poorer — for it. For some reason this minor epiphany struck me as incredibly meaningful.

Here I am with this capacity, this unlimited potential for kindness, love, empathy etc. that wells up from an infinite source within me, and yet, a part of me can so easily block that energy. Why would I do that? Why would I deem some people worthy of my benevolent attentions and deem others deserving of criticism, suspicion or enmity? Martha Beck, a noted life coach, explains that this pattern originates in our lizard brain, or limbic system, a primitive survival instinct that sees the world in terms of “lack-and-attack”, of scarcity and vulnerability. Like training wheels on a bike, the part of me that fears for my safety and survival, and which served an important purpose in more primitive times, can be seen for the evolutionary throwback that it is, when I lead an examined life. When I step away from my knee-jerk reactions and just observe what’s happening, I reclaim my power of choice. With that power I can choose to get out of my own way, and open the flow of love and aloha that is everyone’s birthright. Like the mission statement of the HCC, may the impact of my life be to spread the roots of lokomaika’i, kindness and generosity to the people (and birds) around me.

Now to go swab the lanai off.

After a busy Memorial Day weekend, I was very much at a loss for a topic for this week’s blog. Putting it off until the eleventh hour was only increasing my anxiety. So, after a brief interlude in which I consumed the free world’s supply of pistachios, I came up with a way out of this “death by pistachio-procrastination”. In the words of the great Nike ad campaign:

Just. Do. It.

Or, to put it more poetically, Nānā i ke kumu. Look to your source.

My source is the well of daily experiences from which I draw inspiration and insight, combined with the spiritual practices through which I expand my self-awareness and increase my sense of personal agency. This is similar to what author and educator Mary Kawena Pukui intended when she authored a three volume series dedicated to Hawaiian families and children. The books were written to compensate for foreign influences that have compromised the ancient cultural practices, concepts and beliefs of this once-isolated island people. The results of these influences have been a plethora of problems running from unemployment to domestic violence, to a loss of cultural identity, and the attendant decline in physical and mental well-being. Pukui believed that these and other related problems might best be addressed by a return to the wisdom and dignity of their Hawaiian cultural roots. In volume 1 of Nānā I Ke Kumu (1978) the theme is explained thus:

“This is the value of personal well-being. Literally translated, Nānā i ke kumu means “look to your source.” Seek authenticity, and be true to who you are. Get grounded within your sense of self. Keep your Aloha at the surface of what you do daily, and celebrate those things that define your personal truths. To value Nānā i ke kumu is to practice Mahalo for your sense of self: Do you really know how extraordinary and naturally wise you are? Find out. Become more self-aware.”

Last Saturday I participated in an initiative that illustrates the value of Hawaiians returning to their cultural roots, as pertains to growing and sharing their food. When COVID forced restaurants and hotels to close over a year ago, it virtually froze the market for locally grown fruits and vegetables, along with the small-scale fish, poultry, pork and beef industry on the Big Island. As their customer accounts dried up, farmers, fishermen and ranchers had no way to make a living, and were left to feed their harvests to their livestock. In response to this problem, Mike Hodson, proprietor of WOW Tomato Farms and president of the Waimea-based Hawaiian Homesteaders’ Association, sprang into action. He created a grassroots program of food distribution connecting producers directly to consumers.

Years earlier, Mike and his wife, Tricia, had a vision of bringing farming back to the community. But they wanted to teach it in a way their people best learned: Not from a manual, but through hands-on practice, on their own soil. Told by agriculture experts that it was impossible to grow organic tomatoes in Waimea, Mike set out, in 2007, to prove them wrong. And he did just that. Spectacularly.

When his own greenhouse-grown, organic tomato business proved wildly successful (hence the name WOW Farms) he started a program called Farming for the Working Class, where other Hawaiian families could learn to farm again.

With funding from First Nations Development Institute, “the project was up and running, and true to Hodson’s vision, the impact on the Hawaiian people has been three-fold…benefiting farming, families and the future.

“Through the project, families grow food to feed their families. They generate extra income, and they trade food with other families, thus reducing their own expenses. In addition, Hawaii gets a source of locally grown food, which has become rare in the state, as 90% of food is shipped in from the mainland or Japan.

As for the future:

“By 2016 the project had increased the amount of farmed land by 50% [from 2 to 45 out of 115 lots] with hopes to increase it to 75% [in years to come]. Families are generating additional revenue. Income levels are rising, and Hawaii is able to reap locally grown food. Kids growing up in Hawaii have options for staying on the island and building a life. People are returning to their culture of self-sufficiency and self-determination. Families are seeing the therapeutic effect of farming, reconnecting with the earth and working with the soil. And the concept of community – extended beyond the family environment – is being embraced.” (Posted on the First Nations’ Indian Giver website, March 18, 2016. Tag Archives: Mike Hodson).

All of this was at risk of shutting down when COVID came to town. Enter Mike and his food distribution initiative. All of the families whom he had introduced to farming (and more) were recruited to sell their products, at fair market value, direct to consumers. The latter, who paid a nominal fee to receive a bag of locally-grown produce and proteins once a week, became what Mike called “micro-donors”, making them part of a collaborative solution to the supply and demand problems that COVID caused. Along with grants and donations from government agencies or others philanthropies, the initiative distributes about five thousand pounds of food, at a cost of around ten thousand dollars a week to approximately three hundred and seventy-five families. As of this past Saturday the program has been running for fifty-eight weeks, and will continue as long as there is a need.

Though Hodson was speaking of “Farmers for the Working Class” when he made the following comment, I can’t think of a better way to sum up what he, his wife and family, and other volunteers have done since the pandemic began:

“It’s bringing us back full circle,” said Hodson. “Being a whole community is in our DNA. It’s the way our culture is supposed to be.”

Isn’t that the also case for you and me?

“When you come to the edge of all the light that you know, and it’s time to take a step into the darkness of the unknown, you must remember one of two things. Either you will be given some solid ground on which to stand, or you will be taught to fly.” (Patrick Overton)

The other day I watched a tiny green gecko, perhaps only hours old, as it inched its way along the back of the deck chair across from me. Arriving at the edge of the chair, it craned its neck from side to side, up and down, taking in the enormity of its surroundings and calculating its next move. Then with a sudden burst of energy it leapt across a “chasm” almost three times its length to land silently on the arm of the next chair. Maybe its first leap since leaving the confines of its egg, the lanai, and the chair leg. What compels it to go or do wherever it goes or does? Geckos are thick on the ground in this part of the island. No doubt most — or all — are focused on survival, and I sometimes watch their lizardly antics with amusement and curiosity. But the message that this smallest of geckos suggested to me was about the courage one needs to take a leap of faith. And of course, the strength and determination one needs to complete it.

So it was that koa — bravery, and ikaika — strength, became my Hawaiian words of the week. Every new venture requires not only inspiration, resourcefulness and preparation, but also the grit and determination to see it through. It can be as small as learning how to host a zoom chat (me), or as large as learning how to free dive in the great blue deep (my hubby). As with my tiny gecko, momentum is needed to break out of my comfort zone and take the next leap into the unknown.

What I like about researching these Hawaiian words for strength and courage is learning the history and context that make their meanings more accessible to me. Today, a brief history of the Acacia koa tree opened up new insights into ancient Hawaiian life. I read that koa wood got its name from the warriors whom King Kamehameha employed to unite the Hawaiian islands. These warriors created beautiful and durable canoes and weapons from the wood that is still plentiful on the Big Island. This wood then became synonymous with the warriors themselves, and it became known as koa. Brave. Bold. Valiant. Fearless.

A search for associations with ikaika yielded: “To strive, make a great effort, work hard, encourage, animate, strengthen, fortify, try, strive, strain.” I could see some of these qualities in the formidable efforts of my tiny gecko, and why Hawaiians would give the name Ikaika to inspire such qualities in their young offspring.

Where in my life do I need ikaika and koa? Biking on the Queen K highway? Check. Swimming in choppy ocean waves? Check. As a spiritual warrior, facing the mirror that life holds up to me in the people and situations I meet? Check mate.

My spiritual studies have shown me unequivocally what kind of courage and strength of character it takes to go toe to toe with my own ego. Strength to resist going down the rabbit hole of triggered — but misguided — emotions. Courage to let go of ideas about who and what I think I am, or need to be, in order to survive in the eyes of other people. Or in my own self-image. And conversely, to let go of how others need to be in order to be acceptable to me. Courage to own the consequences of past actions and strength to set new trajectories based on the lessons of my personal history. To quote Padmasambhava:

“If you want to know your past life, look at your present condition.
If you want to know your future life, look at your present actions.”

What choices am I willing to make, what actions am I able to take in response to these inner and outer “growth opportunities”?

More than any gecko, today’s writing is inspired by my friend and rad stand-up paddler (SUP), Jenny Kalmbach, who is featured in Garmin’s newly released children’s book called “Women of Adventure: Being Brave in a Big World”. It features six women who have defied stereotypes, surmounted obstacles and excelled in their chosen pursuits. Koa warriors all, their accounts spark dialogue between parents and children, both inspiring young readers to pursue their own goals and dreams, and increasing awareness, in simple terms, of global and local issues. In Jenny’s case, the issue was the vast amount of plastic she encountered floating in the ocean while she was SUP training and competing around the globe. To help address this situation, she and a fellow female paddler collaborated on a documentary based on their 300 mile SUP odyssey traversing the Hawaiian island chain, raising awareness of plastic pollution during various stops along the way.

With their sponsor Garmin, Jenny and each of the women featured in “Being Brave…” have chosen charities that are meaningful to them, and among which all of the proceeds from the book sales will be divided equally. Each in their own unique way these brave young women are “being the change” they wish to see in the world today. That’s as hopeful as sign that the future is in good hands as I can find.

Now for a bit of levity, how much koa could Ikaika cut if Ikaika could cut koa?

“A ’ohe hana nui ke alu ’ia” (No work is too big when shared by all.)

There’s a lot of give-and-take on the Big Island. Often I’ll arrive at the beach to see a big bunch of bananas suspended on a peg for all to help themselves. No note. No “honesty pot” to leave money in exchange for what we take. Depending on the season, one may find a bowl of tangerines, lemons, limes, papayas or pineapples, and even coconuts on offer to all who walk by. Yesterday I came home to a small clump of avocados placed in the middle of our walkway, just inside the gate. I suspect they were put there by a Hawaiian friend, an artist, known for his iconic paintings of island life, and who knows that I can always use and share avocados, a favorite fruit. Such as in this morning’s smoothie. So my first idea for this week’s theme was to find a Hawaiian word for this system of sharing whatever surplus one has, no strings attached. But rather, as internet surfing is wont to produce, the word that came up in my web search was “Laulima”. With a slightly different meaning than the Hawaiian verb for sharing that I had intended to focus on, Laulima nonetheless presented itself as a worthy topic. According to the Hawaiian Convention Center Blog (HCC), whose motto is “Where Business and Aloha Meet”, “Laulima is a pillar principle within the Hawaiian community”:

“In order to achieve our goals, working together is imperative. Teamwork is stressed. Individual achievement is encouraged, but success is found in the contributions of many hands working together. ’Laulima’ embodies the essence of what it means to live aloha.

 “As it applies today, regardless of what your job entails, we are all a vital part of our collective success...’Laulima’ transcends into our work, family, social and economic behaviors. Placing emphasis on ’Laulima’ in any situation will yield great benefits.”  

In the English language I believe this translates to “many hands make light work”.

Since living aloha is my goal, laulima seemed a natural focus for this week. It felt good to pay forward my friend’s generosity by offering avocados to the people around me. And this in turn reminded me of a principle I learned in life coaching called “living your legacy”. The principle explains that, wittingly or otherwise, I live — and therefore leave — a legacy with every choice I make, every action I take. I may never learn to converse in the Hawaiian language, with its monosyllabic strings of vowels and apostrophes, but I can learn to live it.

Living the principle of ohana, for instance, means seeing the people around me as nieces or nephews, uncles or aunties. As extended family. In so doing, I am more apt to lend a hand when I perceive a need, however peripherally. Practicing kuleana, I take responsibility for the environment, the communal “back yard” of our planet, and that means participating in community initiatives like reducing the amount of single use plastic waste we create. My friend at Upcycle Hawaïi recently posted the statistic that they’d diverted over 30,000 square feet and just under 500 pounds of plastic out of the landfill sine January 2018. Again, this is a team effort between mostly volunteers who work together for the benefit of the entire island. (I’m still looking into ways to recycle paper, and of course, keeping my compostables out of the landfill). Hō’ihi also echoes the need to respect others’ space and dignity, helping them live their best lives, as my friend is doing with her ’Tiny House’ initiatives that recruit students and even potential homeowners to help rebuild the community devastated by Kilauea.

Laulima asks me to recognize, respect and respond in some hands-on way to the needs of the greater community, wherever I happen to be. Indeed, such a principle is alive and well in other Indigenous cultures. In South Africa, “Shosholoza”, originally a call-and-response work song introduced by Zimbabwean gold and diamond miners, speaks of the solidarity and teamwork needed to transcend adversity. Loosely translated as “going forward together”, Nelson Mandela once described Shosholoza as “a song that compares the apartheid struggle to the motion of an oncoming train”. It is now considered by many to be the unofficial anthem of South Africa, and is frequently chanted during sporting events and public actions. What we can learn from this in today’s Western cultures is that we cannot go forward without lending a hand to those among us who are struggling to keep up, those less fortunate in their access to education, careers, health care, or housing. Quite often they are the people and cultures that can show us a better way. I’ll buy a ticket on that train.

P.S. This is my 26th blog post, meaning I am half way to my goal. Yay me. Mahalo nui loa for coming along for this particular ride.

I’m full of ideas for this blog post, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Several themes have come to mind this week, starting with an exploration of “mana”, (more on that later, maybe), followed by “hō’ihi” (respect, reverence) closely related to “gratitude” (which undoubtedly has a Hawaiian word for it, too). Oh. That was easier than I thought: “mahalo” is the Hawaiian word for gratitude. Mahalo ke Akua. Or “Thanks be to God”. Wow. I’m learning all kinds of new stuff. Also the term for procrastinating, or “hō’opane’e a’e i ko”. Which I’m getting rather good at.

The chief reason for my hō’opane’e a’e i ko is that I’m concerned I won’t be able to do justice to any of the Hawaiian terms I am learning. And it means a great deal to me that I learn the terms that make Hawaiian culture so compelling to me, and understand how to make these qualities my “way in the world” when I leave the Big Island. Which is why “hō’ihi” (respect) comes out on top for this week’s blog.

Luana Kawa’a, a radio personality and specialist in Hawaiian culture explains hō’ihi as follows:

“One of the protocols we observe in our culture is hō’ihi, respect, especially for our elders. When we look a little deeper we realize that the word hō’ihi comes from the root word, ‘ihi, which means sacred, holy, majestic, dignified; treated with reverence.

 “Hō'ihi is an important Hawaiian value. It is exemplified in our interactions with each other. We teach our keiki to hō'ihi their elders, to be respectful of adults, teachers and leaders in our community. We teach them to show hō'ihi for each other in school, on the playground, at home. We make sure they understand the importance of showing hō'ihi to their kūpuna [elders].”

Recent events on the world stage, and in my small corner of it, have brought the values of respect and reverence, which to me are closely aligned with gratitude, to the forefront of my mind. With Mother’s Day just behind us (or at least it will be, by the time you read this), it’s a good time to express respect for the mothers in our lives, biological and otherwise. To recognize their efforts to nourish, teach, inspire and lead. And to do this in some tangible way. Hence this blog about respecting my elders, in every sense of the word.

My own mother was raised in her family’s hotel while her mother, a relatively young widow, was preoccupied with keeping the family’s business interests alive. On the Canadian prairies. During the Dust Bowl ’30s. No small feat. For lack of her mother’s attention, Mom had to depend on the examples of her friends’ families re: how to keep a house and raise a family. I stand on her shoulders just as my children stand on mine. For better or worse. As Paramahansa Yogananda would say, “I will take only the good from [my childhood] experiences, and preserve only the good in my memory.” These memories are precious to me, as was my mother.

Throughout my life there have also been teachers, role models and mentors who fit the description of mother in one way or another. In particular, Swami Radhananda, the late president of Yasodhara Ashram where I studied and trained as a teacher for many years, has had a profound influence on who I became as a wife and mother. Although we ultimately chose different paths, she was — first and foremost — a spiritual guide and mother to me. As they teach in Hawaïi, I have utmost respect and reverence for elders such as her, who took on the responsibility of preserving the quality, essence and integrity of their respective wisdom traditions.

A young Hawaiian friend, named Ihilani, has recently taken on the task of teaching me more about the “old Hawaïi”. She has explained how Hawaiian names, like certain Hawaiian terms, are freighted with deeper meaning. Her own name is an abbreviated combination of three terms that express the mission her elders gave her at birth: “Hō” is used to convert Hawaiian based nouns like “Ihi” (respect) into verbs meaning respecting, revering. “Lani” means “heavenly splendour”, “God”, “creation”, or other words connoting divinity. Thus her duty, since birth, has been to bridge the temporal with the spiritual, the secular with the sublime. To embody the highest and best qualities she can offer herself and others. And our planet.

Respecting, and revering, or “showing gratitude towards” are ideally practiced whenever Hawaiians enter the different domains of nature, the rivers, forests and oceans where our fellow creatures make their homes. A traditional chant, “E hō mai”, introduced by kūpuna Edith K. Kanakā’ole, is something done before entering the ocean or hiking the trails of the Big Island. The kūpuna sing this chant to ask permission to enter the ocean, and ask that all be granted safe returns.

Such rituals or traditions may seem superstitious — or even superfluous — to our modern sensibilities, but to perform them makes me stop and think, however briefly, about what I’m doing. The kūpuna make us more conscious of the many ways we humans impact our planet. Wherever we reside, we are an intricate part of, and responsible for respecting the ecosystems that we share with plants and animals. The kūpuna show us how the sunscreens we use can drastically effect the coral reefs. How the mud we track out of the forests can affect agriculture as far away as the mainland. Ultimately, we learn that we will reap what we sow. From that perspective, hō’ihi seems like the right way to go.

E hö mai chant: (Edith K. Kanakā’ole)

E hō mai ka ʻike mai luna mai e
(Grant us the knowledge from above)
0 nā mea huna noʻeau no nā mele e
(Concerning the hidden wisdom of the songs)
E hō mai
(Grant us)
E hō mai
(Grant us)
E hō mai e.
(Grant us these things.)

“Pass the puck, not the buck.” (said no one, but it bears considering)

The other day I was talking with our adult daughter (via Bluetooth, of course) as she drove her son to hockey practice, back home in B.C. COVID rules dictate that our grandson change into his gear in the car (thankfully it was a cool but dry PNW day) and this reminded me, yet again, of how much our lives have changed in the past twelve plus months. Though so much has been circumscribed by the dreadful COVID virus, the coaches and parents have gone to great lengths to sustain Canada’s national winter game for its keen young players.

In turn, thoughts of hockey reminded me of my passion for the Edmonton Oilers hockey club during their dynasty in the 1980s, when history-making Wayne Gretzky led the team. What stood out about the “Great Gretzky” was his ability to anticipate where the puck was going, particularly in a face-off, and his uncanny accuracy in shooting and passing. He is quoted as saying, “A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.” And he did just that. It was a pleasure to watch him streak down the ice, position himself where the puck was going to be, and, often as not, pass it to another player to give them the glory of scoring. This strategy of passing the puck struck me as the antithesis of an all-too-common practice of passing the buck, not taking responsibility for one’s mistakes or misdeeds, and/or making the consequences someone else’s problem.

When I first started blogging I had two objectives. One was to promote the idea of leading an examined life, consistently reflecting in one’s journal and being accountable for one’s impact on the planet. Without the latter, without a practice of tracking my footprints, I can’t possibly achieve my second objective which is to set out my personal “rules to live by”, my values and beliefs that stand up to the scrutiny the Buddha taught via his instruction to “…deliberate and analyze, and if it agrees with reason and conduces to the good of one and all, then believe it and live up to it.”

One of these beliefs is that of taking responsibility for my thoughts and feelings, words and deeds, and for the effects of these on the people and environment around me. In Hawaiian culture, the word for this practice is “kuleana”:

“Kuleana is the Hawaiian word meaning ‘responsibility’. Kuleana encourages us to be accountable for all that we do. It is the ’ability to respond’ to whatever is happening. Those who live the value of kuleana know that their happiness is dependent on what happens inside of them, not outside. They choose how they react to circumstances, not let the circumstances determine how they feel. When we live with kuleana, we do our part to take care of ourselves, our communities, and the environment.” (”Naturally Hawaïi” website)

To modify Gretzky’s comment, it could be said that good kuleana is about cleaning up my own back yard. And great kuleana is about helping my neighbours clean up theirs. And so on down the street, until everybody’s yard is clean. Granted, this sounds like a pipe dream, so I asked myself how this could apply to me, in “real time”. In what way could I use my skills and resources to the advantage of the people around me?

I look to other people’s examples for ideas. One friend is building a house on wheels, a “Tiny House”, as it is called, for Habitat for Humanity, to house families displaced by the December 2020 eruption of Kilauea. Another friend has created a plastics recycling business called “Upcycle Hawaii”, that, among other initiatives, regularly volunteers to clean up plastic debris from Kamilo Bay on the south shore of the island, which is dubbed one of the dirtiest beaches in the world. And yet another friend has helped create a sustainable rum ‘agricole’ business (aptly named ‘Kuleana’) that has revived the almost-obsolete Hawaiian tradition of extracting fresh sugarcane juice to distill into their rum products. Only 3% of the world’s rum is made in this ‘artisanal’ way, which both provides jobs and preserves a colorful piece of Hawaïian history.

An idea that has been percolating around in my own mind is to get more involved in paper “repurposing”. Since the Big Island does not recycle the reams of copier papers etc. that end up in the trash heap, I’m wondering how best to address this recycling deficit. Having been to Egypt in the past half-decade I am painfully aware of what happens when garbage takes on a life of its own. A case in point, there is an actual “Garbage City”, formally known as Manshiyat Naser, in Cairo. You can google it. It is a place where the pooorest-of-the-poor inhabitants are trying to create an economy out of the things that other people throw away. That’s what I’d like to do with paper.

Whether it’s by something as small as lending a shoulder to a person burdened with worry, or aiming for something more tangible, like housing for displaced families, one can practice kuleana wherever one happens to be. As Walt Disney once said: “The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”

Or, as my mother used to say: “Do something, even if it’s wrong.” I have a wealth of experience with the latter. Witness my pine needle faux pas with the compost. Which is when the Kuleana rum comes in handy…

“…and in this existence I’ll stay persistent and I’ll make a difference…”

(”Aloha Ke Akua” by Nahko and Medicine for the People)

This past week an incident happened that had a far greater impact on our small community in Hawaïi than one might first have imagined. In order to avoid passing on misinformation, I will simply say that a shark attacked two swimmers who, thankfully, survived the incident without permanent physical damage. Mentally and emotionally it may be a different story. Understandably. No one else was hurt, but the incident left a close-knit community reeling, rumors flying, and messages of concern pouring in from far-flung friends and family, as news (and misinformation, my own included) circulated via the internet.

While it is not uncommon for sharks to ply the waters on the west coast of the Big Island, instances of actual shark attacks on humans are rare. And of course as ocean-lovers, we have to weigh the risks and rewards of sharing space with those myriad creatures whose home is the ocean.

The reality is, we humans take our chances when entering an apex predator’s domain. (Not to mention a large body of water whose power has wrecked ships many times larger than our humble swimmers). As one observer commented: “Would you go into the jungle on safari without a Jeep, a guide, and a weapon for protection?” When you put it that way, probably not. But by that same token, I wouldn’t dare ride my bike on the highway, either, with tons of metal hurtling past me while I cling to the belief that they can see my flashing red light. And me. As they roar down the highway. Texting. Talking. Or half-asleep from the monotony. Maybe even inebriated.

Let’s face it, as Forrest Gump would say: “shit happens”.

Am I willing to give up the activities I love, with the people I love, for the relative safety of a “sheltered” life? A life lived in progressively greater physical, mental and emotional isolation as my fears dictate the extent of my range?

What compels me to venture out of my comfort zone in the first place? My Ohana. A group that meets my need for belonging; a community with whom I have important things in common. Wherever I happen to be, “ohana” is the foundation of my relationships. Though my ohana is currently in Hawaïi, I strive to create this sense of extended family, of deep connectedness, wherever I happen to be. While here on the Big Island, I thrive on the camaraderie (and competition, to be honest) between myself and my fellow cyclists, paddlers or swimmers. And I share a sense of responsibility as fellow stewards of “mauka and makai”, land and ocean.

A Hawaiian dictionary articulates the meaning of “ohana” as follows:

“Everyone related by blood is part of an ohana, not just the strict nuclear family, and so are close family friends. However, the concept of ohana can go beyond blood relatives to describe family that’s not formally related, but who are nevertheless bound by circumstances or inclination. Churches, schools, places of work, and recreational activities can all be the basis for developing ohana, referred to as one’s work ohana, school ohana, and so forth.

 “In addition to describing relationship networks, ohana carries a certain responsibility. When you’re part of an ohana, you have an obligation to take care of those in your circles, and they have an obligation to take care of you. In the context of a family, this can mean respecting your elders or caring for children within the family. In a work ohana, colleagues share obligations. More generally, a member of any type of ohana is expected to behave honorably and avoid bringing shame to the group.”

In this part of Hawaïi, ohana is embedded in the culture and embodied by its people. A few days after the incident, the community of swimmers, paddlers, canoeists, and those working to instruct and protect us, gathered at the beach with a distinct purpose. To honor and show support for our fellow swimmers who were injured and/or traumatized by their shark encounter. And we gathered for each other, as members of a community that is tacitly bound by the ideals of ohana. We generated, through this “strength-in-numbers”, the power to conquer our collective fear of returning to the water. We were encouraged by each other’s presence, and inspired by our injured swimmers’ examples, to wrestle down individual memories of past traumas that fed our fear in the present moment. Residual emotions and future forebodings that can cripple our minds and circumscribe our lives. We each in our own way took a step in the right direction. Out of our protective shells, our individual comfort zones. Pushing away an instinctive need for security, for guarantees. Past whatever was holding us back. And always, with our ohana dispelling the illusion that we are isolated and alone with our struggles and hopes. That’s what I mean by community.

P.S. If you are reading this blog, whether you know it or not, you are an important part of my ohana. Geography no object.

Aloha ke akua. (You can look it up.)

“…I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” (The big Bad Wolf)

The other morning, in a groggy lapse of judgment, I began Instagram surfing through photos of jungle animals behaving like themselves, which is to say, gruesomely; then reading about Derek Chauvin’s trial for the murder of George Floyd, also gruesome; and finally, an essay about the withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan. Gruesome, gruesome, gruesome. In his human interest essay, ex-soldier Timothy Kudo, who served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, questions the worth of his multi-years of military service. What hooked me were Kudo’s comments about returning to civilian life after his honorable discharge from the army:

“Suddenly I’m on a cold American street littered with leaves. A couple passes by holding hands, a bottle of wine in a tote bag, dressed for a party, unaware of the veneer that preserves their carelessness.”

The author describes having shared his experiences in Afghanistan with others who, like the carefree couple, remained in the States, and who recoiled in horror at the gruesome facts of war, (which are painfully true to our animalistic roots):

“I knew their repulsion was only self-preservation. After all, the war cost nothing to the civilians who stayed home. They just wanted to live the free and peaceful lives they’d grown accustomed to — and wasn’t their peace of mind what we fought for in the first place?”

But doubt as to the validity of his “cause” in general, and the “usefulness” of his years in Afghanistan in specific, merely widened the gap between the author and his fellow citizens:

“After my discharge, I moved to an apartment near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, overlooking downtown Manhattan. I’d sit and stare across the river to the gap in the skyline where I tried to imagine those two towers I’d never seen in person as people passed by laughing and posing for pictures. Part of me envied their innocence; another part was ashamed of them, and of me for wanting to be like them, and of the distance between us.”

That last comment impacted me greatly. As I see it, the distance between the author and the people he both envied and was ashamed of, is the distance between innocence and a knowing that will not be – cannot possibly be – forgotten. A knowing of the enormous cost of complacency. A soldier’s knowing that he could not un-do what he had done or un-see what he had seen in that decades-long atrocity, ironically fought in the name of peace and freedom.

But what of you and me? Where do I stand under the rubric of complacency? Do I fall into the category of those party-goers — blissfully unaware of the veneer that preserves our carelessness? And of what does that veneer consist? For me, “veneer” is synonymous with “illusion”, the thin veil between ignorance — particularly intentional ignorance — and awareness.

The veneer, or illusion I equally envy, and am ashamed of, is what our middle son calls my “room of ignorance”. An escape into innocence and unknowing. The attempt to live the “free and peaceful life” about which Kudo writes without all the harsh realities that permeate modern society. And yet, upon reflection, I don’t wish to un-know what I know. The fewer illusions I hold, the less chance of missing the obvious: I am mortal. I am responsible for my life and the impact it has on the planet. As the poem Invictus says: “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”

No “ignorance is bliss” for me.

So if I am not to be complacent, then what is to be done about the shock and awe with which the news is constantly bombarding me? First and foremost, I need to assess what, out of all the “good causes” I might espouse, I might reasonably hope to achieve. What could I reasonably hope to contribute to the greater good of my fellow humans? If I am to evolve into a more enlightened, compassionate and understanding human, I need to start in my own “back yard”. I need to clear out the illusions I carry inside me, my biases about right and wrong, my preferences about who and what to believe. I need to effectively dispel my own ignorance and build a foundation that can withstand the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” (as Hamlet would say).

Reflecting on this foundation, I see an image from “The Three Little Pigs”; one with his house of sticks, another with his house of straw, and the third with his labour-intensive house of bricks. The former two could well symbolize Kudo’s party-goers, oblivious to the veneer that preserves their carelessness. Alternatively, building that house of bricks is easier said than done. Digging into my own back yard can unearth the kind of incriminating muck, the contradictions, hypocrisies and fantasies that Kudo was so ashamed of. Which is why I have developed a set of inner tools to push me through the inertia of ignorance.

One such tool, as I’ve already mentioned, is my journal. Another, also mentioned previously, is focusing on centering, or “4-4 breathing”. And today, I would like to add a dimension to the latter that is helpful in counteracting inner, growth-stunting obstacles. It’s about invoking the light of wisdom and understanding, and is easily done wherever I happen to be. Finding a quiet place in which to gather in my senses the way a turtle tucks in its limbs, I begin the 4-4 breathing that settles into a calm, balanced rhythm. I then create a visualization of light entering my body with each breath that I inhale, and, like pouring milk into coffee, with every exhale, I visualize the light washing the dark matter away. A kind of “self-cleaning-breathing”. This “prescription” is how I try to treat dis-eases of my mind. The intention is to fill in the habitual mental default ruts (or rabbit holes) with something more positive. A fresh, new perspective. A different interpretation for each challenge that comes my way. The key is to not let myself become complacent.

Rx: Inhale light. Exhale shadow. Inhale wisdom. Exhale ignorance. Inhale whatever you need to be a better human being. Exhale what’s no longer serving you. Repeat as often as needed.

“The situation is hopeless, but not serious.” (Paul Watzlawick)

Yesterday morning, a friend and I set out for a kilometer-long ocean swim, as we have done regularly for months. A few days prior, the beach had been cleared when a tiger shark was spotted cruising through the bay, a not-infrequent occurrence in these waters. My swim buddy had been on the beach at that time, as she had been on other occasions wherein a shark had been sighted and the beach temporarily closed. Needless to say, sharks were on her mind that day. We hadn’t swum far when she seized my arm and pointed to a large, indistinct greyish shape materializing maybe twenty yards away. Meanwhile, I had been looking for a small spotted eagle ray that has also been known to frequent this part of the bay, so that, when my friend grabbed my attention, I had only curiosity as we tried to focus on this grey-black blob approaching us in the low-visibility water.

Soon we were able to pick out the distinctive shape of a very large manta ray, it’s graceful “wings” flapping in a leisurely manner that propelled it ever closer. For several minutes we hovered motionless and fascinated by its graceful aqua-batic display of arcs and rolls, its mouth and gills stretched wide to filter feed on the plankton that had been creating the poor visibility. When the ray drifted into the foggy distance we finished our swim (after hailing the lifeguard, patrolling on a jet ski, to accompany us for the rest of the journey).

Safely back on land, my friend and I debriefed about this unusual occurrence; seeing such a massive but benign sea creature “up close and personal” was the experience of a lifetime. But the initial mental suggestion that it had been a shark approaching us out of the murk was enough to compromise the rest of my swim partner’s day. As it would have done mine, had not a shark been the furthest thing from my mind. What my partner had fallen prey to was the acronym with which I titled today’s blog:

False. Evidence. Appearing. Real.

How often have I let my imagination run away with me in that same way? And what has been the effect of this fear on my mind and body? Depending on the seriousness of the imagined threat, I can feel anything from an elevated heart rate to spasms in my stomach, to a sense of hyper-alertness, or, worst case scenario, a state of wild panic. If in the latter state, I cannot muster the objectivity needed to assess the situation calmly and respond rationally. To quote behavioral psychology, my pre-frontal cortex (or rational faculty) has already “left the building”. How does this sequence happen? How is it that I can so quickly go “from zero to sixty” in re: how I perceive a threat to my safety and security?

The neuroscience behind this phenomenon attributes these knee-jerk reactions to our limbic system. The limbic system is located in the brain, and is most frequently associated with emotions. I think of this system as my personal bodyguard, whose role it is (among other things) to protect me from any and all perceived threats to my survival. The amygdala is an almond shaped collection of nuclei located in the temporal lobe that seem to be especially involved in fearful and anxious emotions, and has the ability to override or effectively shut down the brain’s logical capacity, and expropriate my mental faculties for a “fight, flight or freeze” course of action.

All of these reactions have one thing in common. They put me (and you, most likely) at the mercy of an ancient part of the brain (our lizard brain) that operates on a program of “lack and attack”. It is incapable of detecting the difference between real and perceived threats to my existence, which explains why, for hours after the monster in my closet turns out to be nothing but a crumpled-up pile of clothing, I still have difficulty lowering my heart rate, calming my nerves, and/or executing tasks rationally. That’s the science in a nutshell. Pun intended. Michael Singer, author of Untethered Soul, personifies this hyper-vigilant aspect of personality as a maniac in one’s brain. He writes:

“Ninety-nine percent of your thoughts are a waste of time. They do nothing but freak you out.”

 “To attain true inner freedom, you must be able to objectively watch your problems instead of being lost in them. No solution can possibly exist while you’re lost in the energy of a problem. Everyone knows you can’t deal well with a situation if you’re getting anxious, scared, or angry about it. The first problem you have to deal with is your own reaction. You will not be able to solve anything outside until you own how the situation affects you inside.” 

Hard as it is to detach myself from my knee-jerk reactions, Singer insists that my essence, my true nature, is that which can stand by and witnesses this inner parade of thoughts and feelings, the way a particular situation effects me inside. As I understand it, when I say “I’m feeling anxious, bored, or angry etc.,” I’ve already demonstrated that I CAN and DO witness what’s going on in my mind. All the time. Like a therapist to a client, there is a part of me that can rationally see and describe what’s happening, even as I’m caught in the thick of it. I can observe the constant flow of opinions about everything (my big important story, as it were), and register the fact that I am more than all of these thinking, feeling and reacting facets. How could it be otherwise? The key is to not identify with the maniac in my mind.

Hence the point of leading an examined life. Just as soon as I finish this therapeutic glass of red wine.

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” (Mae West)

The title of this blog came to mind a few minutes ago, and aptly so, as I was in the process of layering the kitchen scraps, grass clippings and hay into my five-months-old composter. Though it’s probably too soon to tell, what I’ve seen in the barrel so far looks more like mulch —something to discourage weeds, rather than nurture healthy plants. I’m reminded of the Christmas wreaths that I judiciously disassembled, and with which I christened my new composter in late December. I had high hopes of tumbling out dark, rich loam sometime before going home to B.C. In a couple of weeks. To yet another lockdown.

Though I’m not looking for (nor apt to get any) sympathy, returning to what is essentially a déjà vue in Vancouver is a daunting prospect. At this point, doing anything outside my now-familiar routine is a daunting prospect. Sometimes, say, after reading the latest news, even flossing seems daunting. Variety may be the spice of life, but hearing about variants of COVID 19 (romantically named B.1.351 and B.1.1.7 etc), whose total global cases have now exceeded 128 million, is enough to make me want to crawl under a rock. Alice’s rabbit hole comes to mind…

Which is why it is helpful to be reminded of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s chapter about the manure of experience in his book “Meditation in Action” (Shambhala Publications). In this particular chapter Trungpa writes about the need to reflect on our failures as much or more-so than our successes, for, by extracting the lessons learned through making mistakes, we stand to achieve better outcomes in the future. Trungpa talks about all the ways in which we humans tend to sweep our problems, mistakes, and miscalculations under the carpet, or toss our metaphorical rubbish over the fence into the neighbor’s garden. He explains it thus: “unskilled farmers throw away their rubbish and buy manure from other farmers, but those who are skilled go on collecting their own rubbish, in spite of the bad smell and the unclean work, and when it is ready they spread it on their land, and out of this they grow their crops.” In layman’s terms, this might equate to paying a psychologist, or guru, to tell us what we might otherwise learn from becoming our own laboratory, from using our minds to study our mental and emotional faculties. Our past choices and actions.

In other words, if I am to benefit from leading an examined life, I first have to take stock of the decisions that brought me to this point in time. My schemes and the desires that spawned them, my mistakes and the reasons I made them, (including putting evergreen needles in my compost barrel) are the fodder out of which I grow my inner and outer garden. My personhood.

If it’s not too big a stretch, it could be said that my mind is a metaphorical compost barrel — what I put into it bears a direct relationship to what comes out of it. And always has. The point of reflecting back, even into the more distant past is to see how I reacted or responded to things that happened, and reflect on whether my response would be the same were those situations to crop up again.

They say that time heals all wounds. This is only so if time also provides for more context, more experience, more objectivity.. Without the latter, one is apt to continue making the same mistakes over and over again. (Unless by some fluke one stumbles on a better way. As my husband likes to say, even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while).

As composting has taught me, we are accountable for our past mistakes in one way or the other. Adding evergreen clippings to my compost was a rookie mistake for which I need not be berated. But it will admittedly affect the quality of the compost. It will take more time for the pine needles to process through. But that time will undoubtedly pass, and by adding in other, more suitable materials, the toxic effect of evergreen debris with be dilluted. The same can be said for many of the things I may have done in ignorance. They all have their consequences. That is something I must accept, learn from, and move on.

After all, my cumulative experience is what makes me, me. It’s no use pretending to be something or someone I’m not. Trying to ignore, hide, or deny my past mistakes doesn’t fool anybody. Besides, as Trungpa says: “this collection contains good things disguised as bad and bad things disguised as good”. It is only through reflecting on this “collection” that I am able to see what Trungpa means. By continuing to lead an examined life, by continuing to learn and change with each passing day, I can find the silver linings that were not obvious at the time. By applying this learning, the outcomes, and my effect on the people around me, are bound to improve. Though in some ways my experiences are unique to me, in other ways, they are shared by countless of my friends and colleagues. Thus an added bonus to leading an examined life is the opportunity to share what I have learned with others, and, ideally, save them from making the same mistakes. In so doing, I can gradually become the change I wish to see in the world today.

To quote Mae West: “I never said it would be easy. I said it would be worth it.”