Healers, Dealers, Spiritual Weavers and The U Word

A massive surge of "healing" began a few weeks ago—I think—when I received a Hawaiian "tiki" idol handcrafted by a wonderfully talented local soul named Kawika. (Think opposite The Brady Bunch in Hawaii.)

Well, truth be told, the healing began long before that—somewhere around my 2014 fall from Corporate Grace beautifully wrapped in a Blessing in Disguise; or ... my unlikely sojourn back to the midwest to finish a memoir about my Polish family; or ... the Email That Came Out Of Nowhere, luring me to Maui to oversee baby olive trees and, so much more apparently.

(Tilling the soils of the heart and mind—not for sissies, let me tell you.)

Well, there I was minding my own business—meditating and chanting and walking labyrinths like a spunky "spiritual" enthusiast, searching for Truth (here, there, wherever)—when a well-known local man/new friend suggested I consider purchasing a handmade Hawaiian idol made by his cousin—Kawika.

We met on the patio of Starbucks in Kihei and there, in the thick of a sensual 91 degrees, Kawika showed me several of his creations, each one made from the spine of a sea urchin. I was certain the sea urchin didn't mind and if it did, well, it should have had more "spine" to resist. Regardless, as I sat there caressing these idols, I marveled at the detail that had gone into them.

There were a few idols to chose from but for me, two stood out: Lono, the God of Peace and Fertility and Káne, the God of Water and Life. Decisions, decisions. Fertility and peace felt appropriate, but as Kawika explained more about Káne, I felt more drawn to the story behind the name.

In Hawaiian mythology, Káne is considered to be the highest of the four major Hawaiian deities—Kanaloa (God of the Underworld), Kú (God of War) and Lono round out the bunch. Káne, representing the God of procreation, was worshipped as ancestors of chiefs and commoners. In essence, Káne is the creator and gives life associated with dawn, sun and sky. The good news? No human sacrifice was needed in worshipping of Káne.

The God of Life.

As I sat there ruminating on the idol and, to some extent, the latest course of events in my life, a few thoughts arose. The big one: How was it that The Universe managed to lure me onto an island—one of a few in a nice little chain—that happens to be one of the most remote islands on the planet, and the furthest away from any major land mass? And how was it that I was now being asked to trust that everything would indeed work out, regardless of income, finances, blah blah blah?

Of course, I had no real answer for those questions—more like immense gratitude for the former and a sense of humor for the latter. After all, after the newspaper at which I had editor for many years was sold in 2014, a whirlwind adventure began. An adventure away from "lack" actually.

Other questions arose, like ... What would it be like to be on this island for an entire year? What possibilities could be created if I were to simply stay—ship the car over from California and everything. To, well, trust, that something unique would unfold all the while braving some of the whispers from the Mind, some of which, I sensed, I had no business minding any more—the parts that kept suggesting I head back to The Mainland and re-enter the swirl that is corporate media in 2015. Or, as I like to call it: Opinion Journalism with A Large Side Celebrity Fascination With No Real Pay.

To quote my new friend on the island, the self-proclaimed Martha Stewart of Maui, "I'd rather gargle with wasps!" (More about him in the next blog post.)

Still. Could there be something of value of being closer to family in Chicago?

Life. Yes. I needed an IV-drip of that. I needed to feel bathed in a kind of renewal that could only come from something that was not from the same pool in which I had been swimming for so long. I required some kind of awakening and RE-something to assist me in arriving to my next destination.

I choose the Káne idol and began wearing the idol immediately.

Meanwhile back in the Kula olive field, things blossomed. The grass surrounding the baby olive trees was in serious need on manscaping and I was sans a lawn mower and weed whacker. Nor would I even know how to use them—much. After all, one day, I took a mallet and pounded a post back into the ground—like real good—but I was still craving good catering afterward and there was nary a chef in sight, so...

In any case, a professional landscaper would have to take care of the matter. Phone calls were made. Meantime, like a wannabe Zen master, I maintained my daily ritual: rising early every morning and driving the Polaris out into the field to make sure the young olive trees were all fine; to see that no deer had done something to these creatures; to make certain that the trees'  branches were still tied to posts to prevent the wind from having its way with them. In the evenings, I was back in the field, turning on a few lamps and wishing the trees well—a good night sleep I suppose. At some point during these excursions, I decided to bring my iPhone with me and let the music play ... as it were. I mean—really, life feels so much better when its accompanied by a soundtrack. Oh, what fun we all had—the trees and I—listening to the theme from Tootsie or St. Elmo's Fire. One day, as my biorhythms turned adventurous, I unleashed Pitbull's Wild Wild Love followed by Madonna's Rebel Heart.

I thought all of us—the trees and I, of course—could relate to the rebel part. More or less.

Dear Lord. How had I gone From Celebrity Interviewer to The Olive Tree Whisperer? (I smell a movie deal ...)

The point is this: It felt as if life, once so confusing and exhausting—writing about Stalin's handiwork must have something to do with it—was beginning to emerge ...

... in a new way.

And then, somewhere between noticing I had not had a mood swing in nearly two months, my brain must have noticed me noticing and one occurred. Fear, like fools, rushed in.

"Move to Maui? Ridiculous!"

"Ouch! This is gonna hurt? How? What will you do? You know—for money?"

"Dearest Greg, do you realize very few people purchase memoirs these days? Are you certain you still want to be an author on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"

To which I replied: "Yeah, I'm sure. But I want to try it without the nervous breakdown this time."

My modest internal upheaval led me to the offices of a chiropractor who henceforth will be referred to as Dr. Woo-Woo. Well, there really is no other term for him. I had gone in to see him upon the recommendation of a new friend who insisted he could "alter DNA."  I absolutely loved the sound of that. After all, over the last few years, I had been researching epigenetics for the book about my Polish family and, in many ways, I had been experiencing, first-hand, how unresolved family trauma can be passed down from one generation to the next, especially trauma from survivors of World War II.

I was into anything healthy that would boost my spiritual metabolism.

So, there I was sitting across from Dr. Woo Woo, sharing some of my "story" when I thought he would perhaps adjust my spine. You know, open me up. Tall and thin, his white buttoned shirt and dark pants hung loosely off of his body. After listening to me suggest that I may still be going through something epigenetic-related and that I hoped I did not sound too out there, the man nudged his eyeglasses up his nose and nodded.

"I understand."

Oh my—he used the U word. I wanted to reach out and hug him.

He instructed me to hold out my right arm and make a fist. He proceeded to tap his fingers across my wrist and with his eyes rolling back, he appeared to interpreting some code from the ethers. He nodded several times, asked the air how many generations this and that went back and how that and this could all be related to this and that and yes, that! He proceeded to nod more. He sighed. A lot. His fingers tapped away.

I sat there watching him—positively stunned—while my Polish mother's concerned face flashed before my eyes.

Meanwhile, the darkly comedic writer within gushed at the possibility that I had just been fed marvelous material, but ... that savage beast calmed down and after a few minutes, somewhere, deep within me, I found myself more curious than amused, and then ... much more relaxed and intrigued. I had absolutely no idea what Dr. Woo Woo was doing but from the deepest pit of my tummy, I knew that something was being done—that the man was, in some way, aligned to some sort of energy field—or something—and that he was interpreting something beyond the physical realm.

If invisible images and sounds can make their way into a small phone, then what is so absurd about a man who is a similar conduit—but in a different way? Good God—the man was a human iPhone.

The session lasted for nearly an hour.

About a week later, after Dr. Woo Woo GMO-d my DNA—in a good way—and, how did he put it?—clear "four generations of psychic poisons ..."

[You must realize that even I realize how this sounds ... but I swear on the bundt cakes I have not yet eaten from The Martha Stewart of Maui that something just north of a religious experience occurred in that room with The Woo Woo of Maui-ville.]

Alas, why bother explaining it all. And who knows if such things would happen to every one should they unplug from the Matrix that is corporate America and, to some degree, The Mainland, however it is/has been occurring to me. So ...

Where was I?

Ah, yes ... after being cleared of four generations of psychic poisons, I accepted and invitation to attend the birthday bash for Martha Stewart Maui.

Insert cliffhanger here.

More about all that soon. In the meantime, I am off to take a nap. All of this "healing" is "work."

Namaste.

Aloha ....

Or, to coin a phrase from a popular film ... roll, baby, roll ...

Getting Out Of Your Mind So That You Don't Go Out Of Your Mind ... and Other Miracles

In the nearly eight weeks since my arrival on Maui, I have witnessed something quite interesting: My screeching halt into the Here and Now (aka: The Present Moment) has giving birth to the plural form. In fact, I can now refer to these events as "halts." And, truth be told, the screeching has been replaced with grace ... for every few days I experience something that is challenging to sometimes articulate effectively. It is as if Maui insists I sit still and do more of, well, "nothing."

No thinking. No doing. No ... thing.

This, I have come to realize, is a curious learning curve to adapt to for a child of Polish refugees and someone who has spent a fair amount of time looking for acceptance and relevance outside of himself, and—Dear God!—a good chunk of time pursuing the bright lights of fame, fortune and Hollywood acceptance. More or less. But when the Universe opens up the living room door of your psyche and, basically, invites your "Look At Me, Look At Me!" evil twin to leave the premises, it's best to follow orders.

When the life you have been living no longer is the life you are designed to keep living, in essence, the jig is up. For me, it went down like this: "Greg, get out of your mind or go out of your mind."

Alas, there were times I feared that I had already arrived at the latter destination.

So, in between babysitting young olive trees in Kula, burying sacred birds, breaking up a family of Gekkos, and walking sacred labyrinths—oh my, it's all about integration and implementation!—I began delving more deeply into Hawaiian culture. Specifically Maui's culture. By chance—there is no such thing—I met a Mainland transplant (from long ago), Gale Wisehart, who invited me to his authentic Hawaiian choir practice. I soon realized that he and his partner helped launch the choir nearly a decade ago and, to my surprise, there had never been an authentic Hawaiian choir on Maui. That a Caucasian man with musical savvy would have the wherewithal to delve into this, and help the choir thrive over the years, intrigued me. I was also made aware that Maui's reputable Kumu Uluwehi Guerrero was the choir's co-director.

One week, on a Tuesday not long ago, I sat in one of the pews in the rear of the historic Ka'ahumanu Church in Wailuku for choir practice. There, I witnessed something remarkable unfolding—a mix of steady graciousness and profound depth from the singers, a mix of native Hawaiians and longtime residents. The group was rehearsing for an upcoming fall show and, also, a Christmas performance—tears flow when you listen to Christmas songs sung in Hawaiian, by the way! I returned for choir practice the following week and absorbed more, paying closer attention to moments in some of the songs that were performed by Kumu Uluwhehi, who is commonly referred to as Ulu. His powerful vocals stand out, however the man seemed to be channeling some magic from the Gods and the reverence he exuded for the songs was quite something. In witnessing him, Maui had, once again, reminded me that there is a significant difference between doing and being. Let's face it: Individuals who are able to be in the moment stand out. There's a there there. In the absence of a racing mind, there is presence.

What would be possible, I thought, if I allowed myself to be "in the moment" more often? What would happen if "The Need To Know How Everything Is Supposed To Turn Out" simply was not so active in the mind—or active at all? What would happen if, in the midst of profound life transition, you decided to incorporate the "have" part in "Have Faith?"

Was this my primary lesson to learn here on Maui?

Later, I learned that Ulu was going to teach a beginning hula class. So, I signed up. When on Maui ... after all.

A week later, on a Thursday, I was in my first hula class—ever—and eager to absorb something I did not quite know how to actualize on a consistent basis: Peace? A kind of letting go? A "go with the flow?" I noticed that I was one of several men taking the class. The rest of the students were females, however Ulu had two male assistants. We learned three steps during that first class: Káholo (a stepping side to side motion), Kao (swaying side to side) and Hela (one foot placed 45 degrees, knee bent on the opposite leg). Most of us faired well—and for a guy who grew up stumbling over Polka steps, I did good—but what stood out was something that Ulu expressed, which I heard from other locals here on Maui .... that when it comes to hula, it is not about you. In fact, you are simply there to express the story (through movement) that is being projected through the instruments and/or song. In that respect, you—your body—becomes somewhat of a vessel for which a Hawaiian story can be told. You, your mind—all that—has no business being in a hula performance.

Later, I was reminded that every movement, expression and gesture in the hula has some specific meaning. These movements can represent animals, plants, other things in nature. An art form with one specific requirement: that you get yourself out of your own way.

Now, where have I heard that before?

Getting out of your own way? Practiced well, it could become an art form.

This week's hula class approaches—oh, there's a sublime Hawaiian blessing that occurs before you enter the room—as does another opportunity to take myself out of the equation ... for every so often, I look to the sky and ask the Gods: "Now what? What happens after Maui? After this?"

Most of the time I hear nothing. Sometimes I see a shooting star.

And in that quiet space, inevitably, I realize that I am left with this. That this is all there is. That this is not that and that that is not this.

To which I ask myself: "Dearest Greg, can you really get used to this?"

Huh. 

Yes.

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 ...

 

And Then There Was ... Grace Revealed: A Memoir

In between watching olive trees grow and decompressing for next adventures with the book ... cleaning out old files and gathering all the publicity for the book thus far ...  Here's our recent interview w/ CBS Bay Sunday.  Off to the fields now ...

Painting Yourself Into A Spiritual Corner Where There Is Nothing But Mirrors

It has been a week since I took the hands of Divine Intervention and fled to Maui. Well, I am not sure I fled. Not really.  I think I was drop-kicked here.

I have this funny feeling there is a very good reason why The Universe plucked me out of "society" and placed me on—what the heck?—an island!?

Never under-estimate the winds of fate—their gale force winds will blow you where you need to go if you allow them to.

The truth is I could have slipped back into "the rat race" after the release of my book, "Grace Revealed," back in February. I could have found myself working for another media corporation and doing all that which one does when one does THAT. But was I destined to return to media and publishing at a time when it seemed ever more fascinated with listening to its own opinions and spreading thick layers of celebrity frosting over the media easy-bake oven cake, which still passes as journalism?

I had done that, in fact, for many years. Celebrity reporting. Hey—it was good. Still, I made sure I probed deep, got to know the people I was interviewing. I did my best to go beneath the surface. I tried to do something different.

Things changed. Something changed. Maybe I changed.

Yes, that.

All I know is this: I wrote about my Polish family—homeless Polish people during the 1940s under Stalin's terror—and that returning to reality has, well, befuddled me. Everything I once knew—my job, my community, my interests—were suddenly nowhere to be found. I had been laid off before the book was published. I had moved away from the community in which I had lived for many years. And all of those things that had once given me such a "high" energetically—poof! Gone. It felt as if something deep inside of me had snapped in two—a necessary connective wire, perhaps—and that the ME that I knew to be ME no longer felt like ME.

All of the luscious stuff—excitement, interest, fascination, desire—had been wiped clean from my emotional hard drive. Was I in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Was I going through post-partum from writing the book? Was I experiencing a kind of intergenerational echo effect PTSD genetic thing handed down from my Polish ancestors?

God if I knew.

Which is why, in the depths of mental and emotional exhaustion, bouts of depression, mood swings. binges on chocolate and a great deal of uncertainty, I decided to do something that defied reason: Do something that would bring more uncertainty—move to Maui.

Accepting an offer to overlook a colleague's home in Kula and make certain that their baby olive orchard thrived in their nearly three-month absence sounded good to me—and let's face it, it sounded so orchestrated by The Gods (I mean, really, where were the choir of Angels?) 

(Trust me: I know how that sounds. But now I wonder: why is it that a gaggle of us need "signs" and a choir of heavenly creatures to convince us that we're on the right path? When did I/we become so codependent with The Universe?)

Oh, let's talk about that later.

Onward ...

During the past week, while the Maui land owners showed me around before they were to depart, my new adventures began. I learned how to drive something called a Polaris. It's not quite a Jeep and too big to be considered a Hot Rod Buggy, however it comes with compartments for things like tools. Yes, tools—wrenches and glue and ties and sticks and things like that. I think there is a hammer in there, too.

A hammer, for chrissakes! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

This would be a tool I would be "possibly" required to use. Upon hearing this, I dropped many decades internally and suddenly felt seven years old looking for my Unavailable Daddy all over again. "Papa, can you teach me ...?"

Well ... the next thing I heard was: "Greg. Snap out of it. It's just a hammer and this is just a vehicle with four wheels and an on and off switch. It's not a tank and you're not fighting the Russians."

(Never under-estimate inter-generational PTSD. Just saying.)

Of course, this whole Polaris thing was one of my first indications that I was no longer in the Big City and far, far, far—like, really really far—away from The Red Carpet and a microphone. I didn't even bring a tie to Maui.

Not. One. Tie.

Who the hell had I become?

Worse—I couldn't remember the last time I put hair gel in my hair.

Whatever. The point is this: I learned how to drive this thing called a Polaris, which sounds like a good name for a Sci-Fi movie starring George Clooney. The first outing in the Polaris, one of the owners was with me in the vehicle. I was instructed to drive down a rich, dark copper dirt slope and into the olive grove. How butch. A slope!

From there the task was relatively simple and, actually, Zen—to observe. Observe.

It's a verb. It means ... "to notice or perceive (something) ..."

We were to notice "how the olive trees were doing." 1) these young babies needed to be attached to their stakes. 2) One had to keep a watchful eye on whether deer from the mountains—from the nether regions of that Haleakala crater, in fact—had used their horns to rub off some of the young bark. 3) be mindful of the irrigation tubes. 4) Change the position of the nighttime portable lamps so that they will fend off animals, mostly deer.

I could do this. In fact, I was asked to do it alone and I did. And so here's where all those years of yoga may have benefited me. For so many many many many years, my primary focus was to "get ahead" in the world; to make lots of cash; to become somebody, to "arrive" somewhere and then it would all be Just Fine. But during the last 15 years, had I arrived? 

The funny thing about that mindset—REALLY WANTING TO GET THERE from HERE—is that is knows nothing else other than REALLY WANTING TO GET THERE. There is no NOW in REALLY WANTING TO GET THERE. Not really. There is just REALLY WANTING TO GET THERE.

And so, as I was driving this funky, door-free thing called a Polaris, getting my BUTCH on, I noticed, at first, how quickly my foot stepped on its gas pedal. What the hell—was I racing a car at Laguna Seca in Central California? My REALLY WANTING TO GET THERE habit was about to take over but by some stroke of luck, or observation, or something else, I lifted my foot off that pedal, just a little bit, and slowed down. I forced myself to be in the moment and do the task at hand: Observe. Observe the baby olive trees! 

Imagine how freaked out that ego/over-active mind became when that happened.

What do you mean we're slowing down? What do you mean we're going to... um, observe? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

All of it made me wonder about something: By accepting the offer to be in Maui; be saying "yes" when Maui called, and by saying "yes" to promise to be a good steward to this luscious land and these young trees, had I, in fact, painted myself into a kind of spiritual corner where there was nothing but mirrors for me to look—at myself? Without any distractions?


I remember writing in "Grace Revealed" ... that "there is nothing worse than Hanging On when you know full well you’re supposed to be Letting Go. It wastes precious time and besides, your fingernails become unbelievably soiled from all the time spent clawing at the dirt of the cliff of which you are strongly being urged to let go."

Familiarity can be a nice thing. However, there comes a time in life when all the "signs" keep insisting that you keep "letting go," experience something new and be of service in a new way. We can either surrender or resist until we're driven mad by the stubborn will to remain exactly the same. It must be in the former where transformation can occur.

I am counting on it.
 
 

Why The Chicken Really Crossed The Road. PLUS: I Get To Watch Olives

THINGS THAT HAPPENED: After 15 years in newspaper publishing, a befuddled entertainment journalist (yours truly) gets canned when his California publication is gobbled up by a competitor in 2014. He follows through with a "sign from above" to finish a book about his Polish family surviving Stalin in the 1940s, leaves the traditional 9-5 world behind and takes one leap of faith after another in an attempt to understand the deeper significance of epigenetics, home and place—mostly his own in the world—and the best way to serve henceforth. But can this slick Hollywood-type reporter fully let go of the glitter and gloss of celebrity culture, go within and find deeper meaning in life—without falling deeper into an emotional abyss?

(That actually sounds like a nice B-movie. Something to ponder.)

Where were we?

Today. Here. Now. This moment. As in ... being in it.

I am close to confirming that my 15th Anniversary Tour of the mid-life crisis I purposely launched at 30—just to get it out of the way—is reaching its climactic conclusion and may end. (I had no idea it would last more than a decade. Okay, fine—it was more than 15 years ago when I launched it. But like an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, it never seems to want to end.)

This morning, seven cocks crowed randomly near the sugar cane fields in Lower Kula, on Maui, as I sat on the chestnut-colored sofa in the Up Country home in which I had been deposited by The Universe. I will be here for three months, engaging in a few writing projects, overseeing the land, and—let's hope!—renew and reawaken in a new way, personally, psychologically, spiritually. 

Professionally? 

Well, I listened to all of those crowing cocks with great interest, marveling at Mother Nature's handiwork; the seamless precision SHE gifted these creatures to instinctively do what they do so well at the time that they do it. Every day. 

Yesterday, when I was visiting the nearby town of Makawao, I realized that the loose chickens there—and all around the island, actually—give new meaning to the term Free Range. They wander around in the middle of the road, in parking lots, in fields, and almost all of them seem to be offering their deep devotion to their male suitors, whose early-morning vocal prowess never waivers. It was there, in this historic Maui locale, that I realized the true answer to age-old question: Why did the chicken cross the road? 

It was never "to get to the other side."  

It was to get to her cock.

Such devotion. Such love. I made a mental note of it, musing on author Michael Drury's proclamation that "if there's a secret to be loved, it lies in not having to have it."

Indeed.

The cock. The chicken. 

Dear Lord—for once, doing the math is easy.

Back to today and an early-morning meditation ... something I am embarking on daily because, well, when Maui calls you to come to Her from out of the blue, it's a gift and I sense there's a reason why I am here, other than why I think I am here, which is, partly, to oversee a home and its property while the owners are away on a business adventure on the Mainland. 

Later, when I met with my colleagues/the homeowners on the upper deck, they pointed out the small olive plantation—can a "plantation" actually be small?—that I will oversee during their absence. 

Olives.

Olives?

How did I arrive here?

I thought I was going to continue venturing forth with reckless abandon as an entertainment journalist. I thought I was going to continue doing celebrity interviews. I thought I would—gosh, I don't know, replace Mario Lopez on that entertainment news program? Well, Stalin changed all of that. The book about my Polish family changed all of that. Losing the editorship of a longtime job in a vibrant Northern California community changed all that.

And, frankly, I am grateful. 

Apparently, there is something else I am to be doing—for now. And if means daily dosing myself on the Tao, Deepak Chopra, Wayne Dyer, Caroline Myss, or chanting in some Temple of Peace or Sacred Gardenon Maui—fine. I am going to do it! I asked for a sign on what to do with my life. This popped up . I am shutting up and showing up for the (spiritual) work at hand. Nine to Five? Please—it's just a movie and Dolly Parton song to me now.  (I think. I hope ... Right?)

Olives.

This morning I learned that it takes an olive tree about five to seven years to come into its own. And then ... it—how do I put this?—never really goes away. Mother Nature. Again—SHE knows what she is doing. I also discovered from the owners here in Kula that there are 5,000-year-old olive trees in Italy and Greece and elsewhere, and that the olive tree—olives—are part of a fascinating social and cultural fabric. Yes. Of course. I must have learned this somewhere but it must have gotten buried somewhere in the nether regions of mind after 15 years of Trying To Get Ahead And Make A Name For Myself.

The indigenous olive tree (the wild olive tree) first made an appearance in the eastern Mediterranean, however Greece first cultivated them. Flashback—way back—to 50,000 years ago and there were, of course, olives, olive oil. All of it.

So ... next week, I begin my daily sojourn out into the olive field to see if the year-old plants are doing well; if the irrigation is, well, irrigating all of them correctly. 

Perhaps there's a deeper lesson to be learned. Although I doubt it has anything the Master Teacher Jesus praying on The Mount of Olives, although I could be wrong. Back in the 1990s, I had a dream that J came up to me at the coffeebar where I was a barista. I saw him standing there. (Yes, he was wearing a white robe). I smiled and said: "Can I help you?" He gently tapped the counter a few times and said: "I would like some service."

(I certainly hope all my navel-gazing, publishing, lighting white sage and spotlighting Agents of Change worked in my favor.)

Anyway the point is this: Can I now benefit from slowing down on a daily basis by walking atop rich fertile soil? With my feet planted firmly on the ground—this Maui ground—is there a chance I can become more attune with the deeper significance of the meaning of "home" and something other than just Making A Living? Sure—that's important. But here I am. I am perched on top of a baby olive field, for goodness sake. I am not sitting in a cubicle.

When in Rome ... right? 

Or, in this case, when amongst baby olive trees.

Onward ...