Mastering The Art Of Accidental Homewrecking ... And Other Leaps of Faith

George had been living with me for about five weeks and I was ready for him to go. Well, it's one thing to barge in and take up camp in the comfy surroundings The Universe so kindly provided—me. (I am seeking spiritual enlightenment in an olive grove, after all, and I am going through a kind of mental detox from Corporate America.) However, it's quite another thing when you bring two comrades with you, Georgette and GeorgiAnne.

Meet the Gekkos. 

They crawl, they make mating sounds, they hide behind the television I never watch.

They also frighten me. I don't mix well with reptiles and rodents ... although, somebody recently told me that a Gekko really isn't a reptile. Regardless, I get spooked by the sight of them.

So, culling from as many enlightenment skills as I had stored up here ... you know, between meditations, freak outs—Dear Lord, what's become of my life and where is it going and how did I end up overseeing an olive grove and is that THING called MY WRITING CAREER officially on pause, now, or what?—and other curious anomalies, I thought it best to allow George The Gekko to remain in my quarters until, well, he felt it best to leave from the same crevice he had arrived.

In the beginning, there was George. Just George. I figured he deserved a name and so, George The Gekko he was deemed. I doubt Mother Nature really gave him a name so this gesture, on my part, I thought to be filled with love and compassion.

Sometimes, in the evenings, when I returned from a day of exploring Maui—oh, in moments when I still found myself to be entirely too serious, I'd take myself to the beach and stay in the ocean until I could giggle—I would find George climbing the walls.

I could relate. I had come from that type of existence after all—back on The Mainland.

"George," I would say. "Are you still here? I'm sure you would have a better time outside with your friends. Here George, let me open the door for you so that you can find your way back outside."

To my surprise, George wanted to stay. Later, during the wee hours of the night, George's jungle mating call permeated the entire living area. I'd often turn to my side and sigh: "I know, George. It may be time for me to find a special somebody, too. But, you know, it's all an inside job, don't you think? I mean, George, correct me if I am wrong, but it's not as if you can just go OUT THERE and find a mate and make everything A-OK. You have to be strong within yourself. Right, George? I mean, we can't be depending on other people to fill our empty holes."

The remark spurred another mating call from George. I wasn't sure if he was agreeing with me or caught my joke.

Whatever. 

"George," I went on, "Did I tell you yet that I married myself 10 years ago? I didn't? Well, I suggest you do the same. My wedding anniversary is coming up in November and I think I may do something really special, George. Although next year ... I think me and my partner are taking separate vacations. The point is this, George: It's a no-brainer—people ought to get married to themselves—first—before they ever consider doing it with another somebody?"

George remained silent, however I knew he was still there—climbing the walls.

Greg, I think I told myself that night, STOP TALKING TO THE GEKKO and go back to sleep. (I have such a lovely husband.)

Well, days turned into weeks. I tended to the olive grove here in Kula—magnificent, by the way and still babies. I marvel at their patience, at their ability to just be. Tending to them has brought in many lessons, mostly Zen-oriented ones, I suppose, and most of them revolving around the art of being in the moment; enjoying the journey and realizing that in the mad rush to GET OVER THERE, we never fully arrive anywhere. Not really. 

After the death and ABBA-music-inspired burial of Fernando—you may recall that Fernando was the bird that I buried last week ...

(NOTE TO SELF: Dearest Greg, you may be spending WAY TOO MUCH time ALONE!)

... After the death of Fernando, I came home that evening and found that George had holding out on me. There was a smaller Gekko with him—crawling the walls. 

Rude, I thought. Two of you?  Really, you could have texted me or something!

After all, I had no idea what George was going to do with this, this, this GEORGETTE Gekko.  Would they be fornicating throughout the night—right there in the same cavern as me? Well, really, I haven't seen this type of behavior since college and I was surprised. I sighed and let it go ... because, apparently, that is my mission of late—to LET GO OF EVERYTHING I KNEW. 

Sort of...

George did evoke his mating call that evening and I was tempted to give him a stern warning: "Look, George," I would have said. "If you think I am going to parent your baby while you galavant around, cocksure, with that Georgette by your side, you better think again. Not under my roof, mister. There's one door there, and another slit in the screen over there. Don't let them hit you in the ass on the way out."

To which I would have told myself: Good God, Greg, you sound just like your Polish mother!

Another week passed. I went on a hike to the stunning Iao Valley with some new friends. I watched the rehearsal of Maui's only authentic Hawaiian choir, launched by my other new pals, Gale and Richard. I laughed, cried, purged, got over things, integrated things, met cute people, internally gave them mating calls and yet, still seemed to only crave one thing: More of whatever THIS was here on Maui. More of .. Not That back over there—in an office, in THE CAREER, in the sea of desperately reaching a point of YOU HAVE ARRIVED! TA-DA!

And that realization, too, confused me. If we are not what we once thought we were ... when all that we were seems to be stripped away ... who are we? Who do we become?  Dear Lord—with such a blank canvas, anything is possible. As Landmark Education so wonderfully points out: from nothing something can be created. 

Or maybe it was Einstein that pondered that? Or movie mogul Robert Evans? Can't be certain right now.

One evening I came home and I found George and Georgette frolicking about. "Hey guys," was my immediate response, realizing that, perhaps, I had grown accustomed to their presence. 

Well, the three of us chatted up a storm. I never knew Gekkos were good luck and now there two around me, so I thanked them for their presence. 

I believe they felt validated.

It was the least I could do. We had been roomies for some time now.

Three days later, as I stepped into the lower-level home, I spotted it—a third Gekko. Smaller. Not a baby. Obviously an adult—just not as study as George, who was at least six inches long and, in Gekkoland, that must  be huge!

I shot George a look and smirked: "Really, George? A menage a trios? Well, that's it!"

The thought of these Gekkos getting it on when, well, I wasn't home, disturbed me. I mean—the audacity! My mind suddenly concocted all types of scenarios. I glanced at the couch, the bed—the kitchen counter! 

"George, I swear if you did it on the kitchen counter, I am just going to lose it, buddy!"

After a healthy counter-polishing, I sat down and had a talk with my troika. 

"OK, look, I get that The Universe brought me here, in part, to help me realize that the world does not revolve around me! Actually, I didn't really think it did think that. OK, fine, those gaggle of times over the years, but I've done good. I've evolved. And now you need to, too, George ... and Georgette and ... well, I guess you're GeogiAnn? Or are you a Gus? Which would be fine with me, kids. Equal rights, right?"

I felt good about the talk. I think they all got the point—basically, that ... energetically, the juju I would spewing out henceforth would be the kind that would find them lovingly and easily returning to their natural habitat. It was only right, after all. I also stipulated, that there would be no ME TOUCHING THE GEKKO THAT IS YOU involved. I added an ADDENDUM: While I can BUTCH UP and MAN UP and pound mallets into posts for jacaranda trees and tie olive trees back to their posts and be rugged and drive that POLARIS JEEP out into the fields—and all without the catering (I kid, wait ... no, not really!) I had been used to on the MAINLAND— that they would ALL have to leave ... 

Sooner rather than later.

A thought occurred: Play ABBA music. But then I poo-poo'd the idea. That was a moment Fernando and I shared at his burial. It simply would not be proper protocol.

From the nether regions of my mind, somebody whispered: Greg ... sweetheart. Remember that Tom Hanks movie where he found the ball and called it WILSON. For reference and therapy, you might want to watch it ... because I think you have, uh, slipped into a kind of quirky abyss.

Whatever!

It was time for The Gekkos to go. Period the end.

And then, two days later, a chance encounter presented itself. 

There I was minding my own business, washing dishes, when I spotted a very robust, healthy-looking George on the wall above the windows. I shrieked. 

"George! Don't creep up on me like that!" 

Well, my teenage girl yelp frightened George, too. He crawled into between the levered windows and the screen. 

My eyes widened—AT LAST!

I immediately shut the windows on both sides, trapping George between the screen and windows. He shot me a look over his left shoulder. 

"Oh, relax. Freedom is a screen removal away, Dearest George."

I took my iPhone with me outside, its trusty flashlight intact. George was pressed up against the screen. 

"Look, it's really the best position one could find oneself in life, George, don't you think? I mean, if I could count how many times my nose had been pressed up against a wall without any seemingly escape plan. Really, George, I'm saving your life. You'll have more food out here. More water. More whatever."

One problem: I had no idea how the hell to remove a screen!

Really, Greg? You can't remove a simple screen?

I told myself to hush up. After all, I had been interviewing celebrities, uncovering the lost story of Polish Deportees and running a newspaper in between mood swings for 15 years—who the hell had time to change a screen?

"George, whatever you do ..." I said, my heartbeat quickening. "Just don't crawl on me ... up my leg and body and all. PLEASE! Just do a buddy a favor and land ... in the dirt!"

George blinked three times. Not sure what that was code for.

One .. I jiggled the screen.

Two ... I felt it coming loose.

THREE!  I screamed and jumped back two feet and as I did, George gently fell onto the concrete and then without a look back, fled into Maui' rich red dirt, out into the fields, near the palms, near water—toward the vast expanse of freedom. 

The metaphor was not lost on me.

Heart pounding, I replaced the screen and returned inside.

GEORGETTE was by the other door.

Jesus. Really?

I dashed across the room. I opened the door. Georgette scurried under the table next to the door. I dashed to the side and nudged a few chairs. Like a cop interrogating a criminal, I briefly shined the spotlight into Georgette's eyes. She blinked and  ...

One crawl ..

Then two ..

Georgette, go ... you're nearly home!

THREE—Georgette left the building.

A breathed a sigh of relief and gently shut the door. Now, was there a vodka and tonic nearby?

Later that night, as I lie in the bed, GeorgiAnn's mating call woke me from my slumber. To which I responded: "OH MAN, GEORGIANN! YOU'RE A GUS?  You want your Gekko Daddy, don't you?"

I rolled over. On some level, I could relate.

The very next day, I let go of the entire matter. I accepted that it would be just Gus and I now, all the while assuring myself that I had given George and Georgette a better life. 

And so, without not much on my mind one evening, I returned home and there was Gus—right by the door, on the wall ... 

Slightly startled, I took a few steps back and just ... opened the door wider. To my surprise, Gus crawled right through the portal and out of the house. He turned back to look at me—I swear! Not so much to thank me. More like acknowledging that he had spent several weeks with a quirky stranger in this quirky Universe. 

I smiled. "Go ahead, Gus. Find your Gekko Daddy. It's OK. Go ..."

And just like that ... Gus scurried into the dark nothingness of possibility.

"Bye Gus ..." I said, and with a sigh, I closed the door.

I was all alone now. How odd. From the pit of my stomach, I actually felt a pang of loss. What the hell was I going to do without three fornicating Gekkos?

A few days later, under the vibrant show of meteor showers, I sat poolside, my head tilted back as far as I could take it. A shooting star sped across the sky. I made a wish.

And then ... from some place behind me in the fields came a familiar sound: George's mating call. Oh my. I would have recognized it anywhere. It was loud and pronounced and of provocative duration.

And when George initiated another mating call, my grin broadened. 

"Oh, George, you are one randy Gekko!"

For The Bird

Week Five of my I Have No Idea How I Landed On Maui Experience began with an introduction to the Upcountry Farmers' Market in Kula. I spent two hours there and feared somebody would have to use a crowbar and pull me off of that vibrant place.

Farmers' Markets are wonderful outings, after all. Organic food. Opportunities to meet local farmers. And dogs. Many dogs. When I ran into Bodhi's sister, I considered it quite serendipitous. Bodhi, for those who have been keeping apprised of my journey here, is the 160-pound-plus Saint Bernard/Rottweiller mix who is the spiritual mascot at Eve Eschner Hogan's soul-stirring labyrinth portal The Sacred Garden. If I recall correctly, Bodhi's sis is named Sierra and she and his owner live nearby. Sierra happens to have some dreadlocks, which I found to be a nice island touch. An Asian man/farmer Sierra knows fed her 17 doggie treats. Sierra was stoked.

Oh, there were other notables at the marker: shirtless surfers (thank you for working out!), fresh-pressed live juice concoctions, and more fruits and veggies than one could possibly imagine. I also met two young men at a small farm stand. One of them, a lanky lad no more than 21, told me he was studying shamanism ... to which I asked: "So, what is the most interesting thing you are learning along your Shamanic journey?"  

The young man smiled and said: "It's not so much about learning right now as it is about unlearning what came before this." 

I nearly fell to my knees. Oh, Young Shaman, yes you are!

I kept on, absorbing the vibrant mood and the thoroughly happy people. My eyes shot back to the coffee truck outside of the parking lot and I wondered two things: What would it take to run a java truck like that and with every espresso drink I'd serve, I would have people pull an Angel card—or something? Clearly, this indicated to me that I was not thoroughly invested in searching for a new media job back on the Mainland. And clearly, I had not yet fully recovered from giving birth to Grace Revealed earlier this year. I was in a kind of incubative mid-life reboot of some sort, the depths of which I did not understand—and maybe, I wasn't supposed to.

Hmmm. What happens when your NON-CAREER becomes your "career?"  What happens when you finally leave the corner office, the cubicle, the "push," the drive to "GET THERE"—whatever—and decide to chuck the illusion of security that come in the form of 401k's and their ilk, and are asked, very blatantly to simply TRUST the Universe and begin interacting more with the world, people, and canines named Bodhi and Sierra?

And serve—differently?

What happens when you realize you may not have any more answers to all of the "old" questions you have spent a lifetime asking?

Well, here was my other thought: Greg, how much do you think it will cost to ship your car to Maui?

I would have allowed that thought to wander the labyrinth of my mind a bit longer, but then I came upon a freshly-baked bread booth. The husband-and-wife couple behind the table, Sybil and Nader, had painted mustaches on their faces. Charming. Of course, I stopped and we began a discussion. I turned to Sybil—so beautiful and happy—and asked: "So, what brought you to Maui?"  She placed her hands in prayer and placed them directly over her heart: "Spirit," was her reply.

Jesus. Somebody get me a tissue!

When I asked Nader how he met Sybil, he told me it was not that long ago ... and that after three days, he got down on one knee and asked Sybil to marry him. I turned back to Sybil. She was grinning ear to ear. "When you know ... you just know," she mused.

Seriously, where was that tissue?

Well, needless to say, husband and wife began baking bread—all organic, gluten-free if I recall correctly and with hints of rosemary, thyme or cranberry. "We put love in all our bread," Nader told me, and who was I to argue. It was evident. I immediately purchased a loaf—this couple does for freshly-baked loaves of bread what author Laura Esquivel did for chocolate.

Love rises to the surface ...

I left the market feeling the bliss rising, too.

Flashforward several days later ...

Today.

After my morning meditation, I walked down toward the lower level of the property I am overseeing. It was time for my morning olive grove run. I had to see how the olive trees were doing. But then I remembered how windy it gets in Kula in the afternoons and I wanted to turn on the sprinklers by the pool. Watering down the unlandscaped grounds prevents dirt from drifting into the pool. As I bent down to turn the irrigation switch, I noticed that there was a dead bird lying on the ground nearby. It wasn't quite a bluebird. Perhaps a Myna bird.

I took one look at the poor creature and frowned. "Oh no! Buddy, what happened to you?"

Was it the wind, I thought. It's been quite powerful lately.

I was torn. What to do? I'll leave the bird there ... for an animal or something,  I thought. Mother Nature knows what she is doing and if the bird is still there in a day, I'll do something with it.

But as I walked away, I felt that little Myna bird pulling me back. I spun around right there in the red-lava(esque) dirt and when I did I spotted a small shovel nearby. Much of the grounds on the lower level of the property I am on is still in the process of being created and there are a few tools here and there. 

I shot the bird a look. My eyes fell upon the shovel.

"Okay, let's do this!"

To the best of my ability, I scooped up the Myna with the shovel but then it turned upside and just lie there atop of it—beak up. 

"Oh for God's sake!"

Chuckling through my frown, I told the bird that we were going to give it a proper burial. And as I walked over to a giant tree off to the side, I looked up to the heavens. 

"Maui, you have lost one of your own ... so now, we shall give this creature a proper send-off."

Not sure if Maui heard me, but what the hell. It seemed fitting.

There was plenty of shade underneath this tree and I set the Myna down and thought for a moment. 

"We need music, don't we?"

I place my iPhone on a rock and pressed the first playlist on it. A moment later, ABBA's "Fernando," began playing.

(What can I say: You can take the gay, cultured career-driven, mood-swinging male out of the Mainland but you simply cannot take ABBA out of him—ever!)

"Can you hear the drums Fernando," ABBA crooned.

I looked down at the Myna. "Well, Fernando, can you?"

Using the shovel, I dug the shallow grave. I placed "Fernando" inside. And then, bit by bit, I covered Fernando. "Go back to Maui, baby."

Afterward I stood there. Something didn't feel quite right. Fernando required a marker for his grave. I looked around me. I found a large branch, shaped like a wishbone. How positively fitting. I rested it against the tree behind Fernando's grave and searched for two small sticks.  Fernando needed a cross.

Meanwhile, ABBA sang: There was something in the air that night ... The stars were bright ... Fernando ... They were shining there for you and me ... for liberty, Fernando.

"Hear that, Fernando?" I shot back. "For liberty. This is all good, buddy."

Well, my attempts to make a cross failed miserably. What can I say? I was never a good Boy Scout and I could hardly tie two pieces of wood together now to make a proper cross, even with using the sturdy grass strands nearby. 

"Maybe it's for the best, Fernando," I sighed. "Besides, look at what the world has done with crosses. You know what you need? A smaller wishbone branch to rest right there in front of you."

And then ... from the nether regions of mind I heard this: Good God, Greg. You're talking to a dead bird! What the hell are you doing? A funeral service for fowl? Is this why you pressed pause on everything? Is it? To listen to ABBA near a deceased Myna? I hardly recognize you!

I thanked my EGO for sharing and went back to the task at hand. (Oh EGO, sometimes, it just needs to be heard, but like any good partner, sometimes, you just have to let it talk. None of us are required to abide by our EGO's commands—or our loved one's for that matter. And should your "loved one" command anything, maybe it's time to put things into perspective. But let's save that story for another time ...) 

I shoved the wishbone branch deeply into Maui's fertile ground, stood up and took a step back. It looked like that proverbial fork in the road.  

"Metaphoric, don't you think, Fernando?"

ABBA crooned on. 

Well, I couldn't leave it like this. Wasn't there something more I could do? And then I recalled my experience the day prior. I had found a small Stupa in the town of Paia. The Buddhist's idea is to walk around in a circle in the stupa in prayer. Every time you make one full round, a bell rings. Basically, you send out good juju with your walk around the Stupa.

My gaze lifted up to the tree. Wonderful. I'll walk around the tree, like a Stupa, and in prayer, just as I did in the Stupa on Tuesday. But first, I acknowledged Fernando for the life he flew, the breezes he felt under his wings, for ... well, you know—his bird life. 

And, somewhere around the part  ABBA began singing, If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando ... I began my circular pilgrimage around the tree. Round and round I went ...

... for the bird ...

 

Sign Language ... And A Peacock in a Pineapple Tree

Ever wonder how to decipher "signs from the Universe?"

I have. 

Why it was just recently that I spotted 11 sea turtles, 10 peacocks, some mongoose, several butterflies, two dragonflies and a white cat crossed my path, plus the book, "The Tao of Pooh"—all in the course of a few days. 

What to do? What to do?

Well, I doubt ignoring it is wise. I lived in Northern California for a good 20 years. Like I am not going to notice something like 11 beached sea turtles taking a breather from ocean life in Maui—and not try to find some deeper meaning in it all. When you're a Sign From God cheerleader, like me, you just can't wait to raise your invisible pom poms and think the universe is talking to you.

But let's back up, a bit.

How did all of those animals—plus the book—wind up crossing my path?

Let's see—it could have been my incessant spiritual phone calls to God, The Universe—whatever you want to call it: Universe, thank you for gutting me out like a fish plucked from Lake Michigan when I embarked on writing about my Polish family's Stalin saga. Thank you for listening to my pleas for guidance and therefore scraping off all the dead skin from my spiritual body when I realized that career burn-out, relationship burn-out, some health issues, mood swings and the wild card that was The Inter-generational Effects of Family Trauma all showed up to play in the living room of my soul—all at once—some time on a Wednesday afternoon ... and then decided to stay there for a while noshing on the hors d'oeuvres of my psyche  ... until I woke up and decided it must be time to receive assistance and empty out the ME that I knew ME to be only to become another ME. And thank you for bringing me to to Maui to look over baby olive trees ... but really, that was plenty, really it was  ... but, um, could you give me ANOTHER sign on what I'm supposed to do next with my life ...?

Perhaps you get the picture.

It's like being in line at the Polish smorgasbord with a full plate of food—and wanting more. On the flipside ... it seems like, for some reason, I have a decent calling plan with the Powers That Be, so, for this I remain grateful—in between noticing my habit for looking and asking for "more."

However, this, too, I am learning: When we do not allow ourselves to sit with what is—right here, right now—we many never be satisfied with whatever we think we want OVER THERE.

I recall my interview with Geneen Roth, who so wonderfully articulated that in our attempts to feed the perceived emptiness we sense within—with food, with alcohol, with busy work, etc.—we miss out on fully participating in our own experience. We're always on the search ... for something other than our own power; our own source, to "fill us up."

So, over the past week, as I was becoming more accustomed to overseeing a young olive grove here in Kula—takes keen observation and being in the moment—I have been reflecting more about all of this. And, hopefully, integrating what I am learning. For instance, all, the young olive trees aren't telling themselves "to grow faster, dammit!"  They're just being baby trees right where they are. 

I also contemplated the life I (temporarily? officially?) left behind on the Mainland; a lush, lovely life for a time, which found me running a newspaper, writing for magazines and attending various red carpet events in Hollywood for TV and more. I have also been thinking more about "home' and how, in the purging of many of my personal belongings last year—the physical contents of my "life" now fits into a small storage locker along the Central Coast of California—the absence of familiarity, structure and certain patterns offers one an opportunity to truly get to know themselves on a much deeper level.

This has been part of my journey here—a kind a reverse 9-to-5 Corporate America existence with existential waxings; opportunities to appreciate living in the moment a bit more while my own Inner Nature reboots its personal Operating System. 

That said, seeing that I'm temporarily not climbing any corporate media ladder and I'm actually in Maui, it seems best to "be in Maui."  

And not in the past. Or the future.

My recent adventures took me to Ho'okipa Beach—enlightening at sunset with those turtles—The Garden of Eden (on the road to Hana where the peacocks thrived!) a black sand beach (past Hana), The Seven Sacred Pools (at Haleakala National Park) and some other beaches on the road to Lahaina, where I spotted a young surfer teach  his girlfriend how to surf. Trust in its finest moment.

Still, I'm human... I think I may have asked for a sign or two .. or seven ... Uh... can't recall ...

But what's different than some of the earlier experiences I had "asking for a signs" ... is that I did not immediately register that some of the things I was experiencing were, or could have been, "signs." I was in the moment, just having a stellar time. It was only afterward, when I recording my accounts of "daily good" in my journal, that I wondered whether the turtles and peacocks and others ... could have, in fact, been "signs from above"—clues.  

Progress? Maybe. But let's do the spiritual math.

In animal totem vernacular, sea turtles represent "wisdom and teaches us about walking our path in peace and sticking to it with determination and serenity. Those who have the turtle as totem or spirit animal may be encouraged to take a break in their busy lives and look around or within themselves for more grounded, long-lasting solutions."

Wow. Times that by 11 and add ...

The Peacock: "here to remind that nothing, including beauty, should be taken too seriously. Be lighthearted but take time to stand by your beliefs, live by them and live your dreams."

Phew. Multiply that by 10 and add ...

The mongoose: "The appearance of the mongoose may indicate a struggle within you or another with the Kundalini energy, which may have sexual overtones."

Hmm ... that crush I still have on that unavailable shirtless male human on Facebook? Check. Now then ...

Butterflies: "profound changes of the soul."

Got it. (I think. Yeah. OK. Got it.) Letting it integrate. Add that to ... 

The two dragonflies that keep flying around me outside my screen door: "symbolizes change and change in the perspective of self realization; and the kind of change that has its source in mental and emotional maturity and the understanding of the deeper meaning of life."

Whoa. Alright then, add that to ...

The white cat: "white cats are associated frequently with happiness, good fortune and purity."

So, let's see: Draw a line underneath all of it and add it up. Carry the "one" here, a "two" there and the sum comes out to something like:

CONTINUE ON TAKING A BREAK FROM BUSY PAST, WALK MY PATH, LIGHTEN UP, ENJOY THE BEAUTY AROUND ME, LOOK AT YOUR KUNDALINI ENERGY, ACCEPT THAT YOUR SOUL IS GOING THROUGH PROFOUND CHANGE, GET READY FOR SOME EMOTIONAL MATURITY (oh goodie!), AND GET READY FOR MORE GOOD FORTUNE AND PURITY. 

Sounds good. Now, dearest Greg, can you allow it all to unfold that smoothly?

Yes, me thinks. Yes. (Right? Yes....)

But just in case ...

... let's toss in a quote from "The Tao of Pooh," gifted to me from two lovely visitors from California, Jonnie and Jackie:

How can you get very far,
If you don't know Who You Are?
How can you do what you ought,
If you don't know What You've Got?
And if you don't know Which To Do
Of all the things in front of you,
Then What you'll have when you are through
Is just a mess without a clue
Of all the best that can come true
If you know What and Which and Who.  

Goldilocks And The Three Oms

I visit the olive trees—some 298 of them—several times a day here in Kula. Each day, I hop into this very butch-looking jeep thing called a Polaris and shift gears and move forward—a metaphor that is not lost on me, trust me. I hardly need to remind myself that I am in a curious state of transition—and, dear God, willing, hopefully, evolution and transformation—here on Maui.

I have, quite simply, said no to another office media position prior to saying yes to THIS, and also, saying "not quite yet" to finding another "home" on the Mainland. And perhaps, saying "Well, I guess maybe NOT NOW" to another swirl of new life activity after the job termination, major book launch and gaggle of mood swings that filled that last 365 days. You know, the gift bags that tend to be offered with the party that is the Game of Life—work, home, play, work, home, play ....

Driving through the rows of these trees soothes me and as I venture forth, row after row, I practice becoming more alert to the breeze blowing across my face—that early morning Maui air, so fresh, so filled with possibility and so void of obstruction. I have also become ever more interested in the well being of these trees. Are they being watered—enough? Are they growing—enough? Are they being cared for—enough? This must be what being a parent feels like. Or a pet owner. (Which makes me worry, only somewhat, that my "neuroses" would spill over onto that Bernese Mountain Dog I eventually want to get: Is it walking too close to the curb? Is it breathing correctly? Is it looking at me funny?)

Alas, it seems to me that since I was brought here to Maui to SURRENDER and TRUST—which are verbs and verbs are actions—and that even in this simplest of acts, such as looking after these rows of trees, as best I can, I have to actually initiate such a thing as TRUST. It's not some magical thing that happens to you, after all. (Dear Universe—just TRUST everything into place for me and I'll stand over here and watch and step forward when it's a bit more comfortable, thank you!)

TRUST is something that is evoked from within.

Dear Lord, Greg—must we get so deep on a Tuesday? You're driving a jeep through a field? Chill. You're on Maui.

There's some truth that, however, even in the most simplest of acts lately—even going to the grocery store—I find there is ample opportunity to practice what I was brought here to experience.

So, today, I TRUST that these trees are in good hands. Or, soil, I should say. The combination of Maui's deep rich earth and the arid climate here in what is considered Maui's Up Country, seems to be good for them, and a nearby neighbor's batch of trees, which are more than five years old now, seem to be flourishing. It's a lovely thing to see and compare—the mature trees down and the baby trees, whose future seems divinely orchestrated by nature. The trees don't need to trust. They're just trees allowing themselves to grow.

Elsewhere, I continue to enjoy my visits to two enlightening portals—Lumeria and The Sacred Garden. Both establishments have wonderful labyrinths to walk and big Buddha statues to consider. The one pictured above is from Lumeria, a remarkable retreat. The Buddhas and the labyrinths continue to be a theme in my journey and as the two-week mark hit for my stay here—and the months ahead that await me—it signaled to my mind and heart the Big News: "Oh, Greg... you're really on Maui—like, for a while ..."   And then another thought arrived: How, on some level, over the past five years or so, I have felt, at times, like a Latter Day Polish Goldilocks on a quest to find that "just right" feeling.

Is that job—just right ... yet?

Is that town I live in—just right ... yet?

Is my bank account—just right ... yet?

Is dating—just right ... yet?

Am I—just right ... yet? 

So, it seems a curious thing is occurring. In the absence of "schedule" ...  in the empty space that remains when one pauses "career" and actually sits still, one is left with ... oneself. And lately, in this fascinatingly roomy place—I mean, what the hell? There's so so so so so so so much ROOM that I think I'm going to FREAK OUT!!—one is given an opportunity to be with oneself, look at oneself, realize things about oneself.

(Or FREAK OUT.)

Over the past few days, during the realization of this "space," I began to wonder how much of my "spiritual practice" I may have actually integrated. As in ... allowed in. Not as a judgment—Greg, dear GOD, please absorb! But as an observation—Greg, have you allowed some of the recent life events, the recent gifts to wander down from the intellect and really sink into ... the heart?
 

At the end of some of the yoga classes here, the instructor invites the students to finish the class with their hands in prayer. We are then invited to recite/breathe out several "Oms," typically three times.

It's a lovely way to finish the class and an opportunity, it seems, to allow the practice that came before it, to sink in ... in the stillness of just being ...

Onward ...