“Every morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.” The Buddha

Well, got a story for you this time and it might as well begin right now. I am sitting at the end of the pier at the Nawiliwili  Harbor and it is Friday afternoon. How do you like that?

I am not home, sitting where I always sit, usually on Thursday and Friday evening, after work. What the fuck is going on? Well, I am so glad you asked. In telling, I may repeat part of an older story, but how many times have you repeated the same damn story to someone and why should I be any different?

When I was up in Alaska, a couple of months ago, I had this visceral feeling that change was coming, but I didn’t know what the hell it was all about. In the past, this gut feeling uprooted me from NYC, on a cross country journey to Santa Fe, NM. In my fifteen years there, I created a home for myself and a deep rooted sense of belonging. I was the kind of Larry I wanted to be and never felt that way since childhood. I wore cowboys and drove a pick up truck.

It was miles and miles from perfect. I had irreparably ruptured the relation with my two sons, one now in a beautifully, delicate state of loving repair and the other not for this page. Stories of change are often romanticized, all about the new and often turning one’s back on the old. The soul has a rear view mirror, my friends.

I had more experiences out there to fill many lifetimes. I often forget with the blur of time, but, holy shit, did I have adventures. Every now then, I think about many of the things I did and the relationships that were birthed on that phenomenal journey. 

I’m going just tell you one in a very abbreviated context. I got involved with the marketing and sales of the Breast Bottle Nurser. It was a silicon replica of the breast and the nipple was where the infant latched on to. I even went to a trade show in Las Vegas. It subsequently crashed and burned, quite literally. The owner/inventor set his house on fire and purposely jumped to his death. Keep in mind, this is only a very, small fraction of things I did out there.

There were so many wonderful experiences about being there. I discovered that nature was real and not simply in photographs from my urban incarceration. I owned dogs. I went camping. I came to understand that our lives are journeys of discovery. Maybe the best part was developing a life long friendship with the Buddha. I know he doesn’t like to talk about me, because I am kind of an embarrassment. I don’t hold it against him, nor can I blame him.

After fifteen or so years of thriving in the high desert country, I got that feeling again. It is not like it resides in any specific, internal place. It is just this sense that whatever I needed to do, I had done. Through a series of magical connections, Hawaii came into the crosshairs of my mind map. From the moment I saw her from the sky, I knew for certain Kauai was going to care for me just like the muscular and angular Southwest. Here, HE became a SHE and I love her deeply.

This time around, that gut feeling of change had no geography attached to it, although I knew it was some kind of internal untangling. Of course, throughout all this time, was the pendulum of one moment to the next, a commodity with some predetermined expiration date. I would be more full of shit than I already am if I stated that I don’t care about time, living moment to moment, just like my buddy, the Buddha likes to say too often.

While waiting around for the lightening bolt, I decided to grease the skids by making a couple of changes on my own. So, I cut all my hair off and stopped smoking pot, in all its glorious,  technical incarnations. 

Yes, I know, a bunch of years ago, I announced on these same pages that I was quitting, which I did. However, I neglected to mention that after around six “holier than thou” months, I was back at it with a vengeance. I was high, most every day, from around 10AM til about 7PM, allowing it to wear off before sleep. In the throes of this, current self-injected, truth serum, I absolutely never published a story that I hadn’t carefully read, while straight. While you likely don’t care, I actually have standards and respect for every reader.  

You can read all the fucken manuals published on mountain climbing and even be able to quote passages, before even setting foot on one. I can share all the incredible things the Buddha had to say about life and I do. The truth is, the idea of letting go and the act of letting go are galaxies apart. 

I decided I needed to change how I was living my life. Mind you, it is not like there is anything wrong with it, but I just don’t want to die in the comforted familiarity of sameness. This experience is so fresh, it is still in the damn oven. From the time I drove away, crying my fucken eyes out, as I looked at my two boys, shrinking in the rear view mirror, waving goodbye, I believed I had to go. Trust me, there was nothing heroic about it. I paid and I am still paying. That urge was so strong, I had to do it and waited as long as I could.

So, here I am again, metaphorically driving away. This time, I am cleared eyed and taking my past with me. I know I have been a lucky guy and for reasons I can’t explain or justify, I have been cared for. I really don’t like talking about it, whether in conversation or on the page. I am humble beyond belief and sitting out here crying, not like those long ago tears from my past, but ones of humility and gratitude for today.

I am one of these people, who has to get smacked in the back of the head to appreciate a sign, an affirmation. It happened yesterday, which is why I am writing this story in the first place, admittedly in ass backwards fashion, but look who you’re dealing with?

I had a conversation with someone that I could have written about as some imaginary occurrence, but it actually happened. The person and the substance of the talk are nobody’s business, because it was more than that to me. It was a stone cold validation of a choice I felt forced to make, coming to me in the form of an exquisite human being. 

The message being whispered to me by my Kauai Goddess from above, was telling me, “You got this. Don’t worry. You don’t need no stinkin’, mountain-climbing manual. One foot after the other will get you to the peak. Just breathe like the Fat Man has been telling you all these years”.  I know, SHE doesn’t use that kind of language, but HER’S can only be heard by the heart and never spoken. So, pardon my slang sincerity and rampant irreverence. I am walkin’ it. 

One other thing. This was all written while sitting in that photograph. Would I lie?

Blessings

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