Martha Stewart Maui

"I would rather gargle with wasps!"

It was one of the very first things I heard out her mouth. And the her was a him. But the him called himself Martha Stewart Maui.

He had a South African accent—Johannesburg. He was tall—nearly six foot five. His was dining with his husband—Maui Bob.

Two Maui Somebodys for the price of one. Well, this certainly was better than a freshly baked apple and crandowdy crumble-top dessert placed atop a stunning yet adventurous—and can I just say, slightly high-maintenance—Hosta Centerpiece with budding hydrangeas frolicking out of tree-trunk inspired vase.

Yes indeed.

(And for God's sake, dearest reader, please do not draw out the letter A in vase. Read it again and say it the proper way: vahhhhhse.)

Now, where was I? Oh yes ...

He told me his name an hour earlier ... when a large group of locals had gathered for a plush dinner at the scenic Gannons, on Maui's luxurious southern side for an event supporting Maui Pride—but why bother repeating his real name now. Martha Stewart Maui he was and in my mind, I had already pulled the long-sleeved white gloves all the way up to my Polish elbows. It was not as if I was going to inspect for dust, mind you, but I had lived a life as a prominent journalist, once, before The Universe tossed me onto a remote island in the middle of the Pacific—so that I could heal or something like that—and I just had to learn more.

Well, the Main Course of Revelations truly unfolded during a post-dinner conversation on a nearby chaise lounge area. It was Yours Truly, my new soulful gal pal Rosemary, Maui Bob and his husband, Martha Stewart Maui. I must have asked what made him "Martha Stewart Maui" and immediately I was inundated with the list: solid relationship skills (both professionally and personally) and then ... oh, the baking, the cooking, the decorating, the shopping, the party planning and, dear God, whipping up—what was it?—his wedding in a less than a few weeks time ... and to one of the most fabulous men a groom-to-be could ever meet: Maui Bob, several years beyond MSM's fortsomething-hood.

My heart melted.

After all, I had married myself 10 years ago—as a social experiment and not so much a narcissistic emotional carnival ride with flashlights shining on me for attention, thank you very much dear Rosemary (xoxoxo). Still ... now that "my husband and I" were taking separate vacations annually, I could not dismiss the slight pang of Something New emerging—the sharing of one's life with another rather than, say, nabbing another human being just for the sake of "relationship" ... which is what I had done to some degree in the past. So, when Martha Stewart Maui mentioned his glorious wedding—in that distinctly unique South African accent of his—it triggered some reflection. Clearly it was time to branch out. If I could pound stakes into dirt and bury a dead Myna bird during an ABBA serenade and break up a fornicating troika of gekkos and morph into a wannabe kahuna while blessing a newly-planted grove of olive trees I had been sent to Maui to oversee, then, well, at some point, I could co-manifest something like love and loving with another—a Maui Rob perhaps for ... hmmm ... Carrie Fisher Maui. (The celebrated albeit befuddled author dearest reader, not her Princess Leia demeanor!)

Well, the four of us chatted up a storm. The conversation ventured into deeper waters. We all spoke of twists of fate—Maui Bob and MSM had married late last year—chance encounters and that dreaded thing, which seemed to have brought so many of us to Maui: career burn-out. That particular topic opened up emotional doors and, I now recall, plenty a finger wave from Martha Stewart Maui—as if to make a point or six, mind you. And as we all sat there, I found it downright interesting that the stars had aligned in such a way, once again, that it brought four complete strangers together to discuss life, loss and new beginnings.

Apparently Maui had lured a gaggle of curious souls to her, lovingly of course, and would hold a space for these souls, watching them unspool into the persons they were meant to be. I believe we all came to this conclusion, however when Martha Stewart Maui noted it—with and eye roll, a wave of a hand and some deep sighs—somehow it felt "official" and true.

To know Martha Stewart Maui is to know that MSM is an impeccable dresser—linen slacks, a dignified blue shirt-sleeved island shirt and Wall Street Yacht-esque loafers, although the term "loafers" seems off-putting. They were stylish, let's just say that.

Martha Stewart Maui has voracious wit. There was something about the way he mentioned his fanciful creation of exotic lilikoi and banana pie with vegan crust, or something like that ... and truly, when somebody from Johannesburg says lilikoi, I do not find it odd—at all—to ask them to repeat it, say, 11 times. So lyrical. There was also MSM's "I'd rather gargle with wasps" statement and all—this after confessing that he, like, me, had reservations about returning to work in a Corporate America-type, fast-paced professional industry filled with 12-hour days, endless emails and high stress. No, we all agreed that perhaps there could be a better way to serve the planet for some of us.

Martha Stewart Maui was a Virgo, which, in some circles is considered the Cathy Chatty of the zodiac and yes, this dear creature chatted up a storm.

Oh ... there was talk of traveling the world, observing cultures, working ... and working harder still. All of which we all could relate to. There were also realizations, the kind that seem to only sprout when four or so are gathered; the kind that suggest that there is more this life than the things we do or have and that, at times, whether we like it or not, we simply must take time to stop what we have been doing in an effort to know where we are destined to go and realize who we truly are.

As I drove home with Rosemary that evening, a feeling of calm washed over me; the kind that suggested I was in the right place at the right time, and that Maui had been revealing more magic.

Four days later, everything changed.

Imagine my shock when through the nether regions of my subconscious came Fear, Doubt and Worry. They brought with them their wicked step-mother, Is There Enough Money, and auntie, What The Hell Are You Doing In Maui And When Will You Get Back To "Work" So That You Don't Worry Your Polish Mother. Yes. They barged right into the forefront of my mind and began activating my entire nervous system.

Rude. I do not recall sending out invitations to come by for "tea." (Actually, if I am truly a Carrie Fisher Maui, it might be a Diet Coke and a Marlboro—whatever!) I wanted them to leave—immediately. But they remained by side until, at last, the only thing that could soothe my spirits was a dip into the ocean ... for I knew Maui would bathe me and cleanse me until I could gather my wits and recall one of its celestial reminders: You were brought here for a reason, Dearest Greg. You were. Be still. Let go.

The following day, not quite fully convinced, I sent out an S.O.S. via text: "Help me, Martha Stewart Maui, help me. You're my only hope—Carrie Fisher Maui."  (And yes, in this case I was being tres Princess Leia, thank you very much!)

Well, the two of us met at a vegetarian restaurant in lovely Pa'ia. There, over a fresh kale salad and some banana smoothie with carob of some sort me thinks, Martha Stewart Maui assessed the frazzled soul that was me. "Poor Polish girl has lost her mind," I imagined he thought, but it was more like: "When we get out of our heads and into our hearts, we are allowed to trust and have more faith. It is this that you must do." A sigh. "Believe you me, I know. It is easier said than done. But you seem to be like me—you want to have "it" all figured out. I must say ... it can become rather exhausting. Trust, Carrie Fisher Maui, trust."

There was a lump in my throat. How wonderfully Obi-Wan of MSM.

A week passed. Maybe more. I walked the new balance beam of Trust and Faith, feeling some things deepening, and other things—intergenerational family trauma (oh, my Polish roots), grief/confusion/ over the loss of my "corporate" life cycle and burn out from finishing a book (oh, the creative trauma we writers face and/or concoct!!!!).

And then I received a text. I was invited to Martha Stewart Maui's potluck birthday party. How lovely. I texted back my RSVP and added: "What can I bring?"

A few days later I was given instructions to bring a protein dish. "But not chicken," Martha Stewart Maui warned, for too many people were bringing that. And not dessert!"

"May I bring tofu?" I texted.

"Well," Martha Stewart Maui shot back. "Tofu? Really? That might be rather contentious around these parts with the whole GMO thing."

Dear Lord. My thumbs went to work on the phone: "I will NOT bring tainted tofu!"

"Well, if you must bring tofu ..."

I am certain I may be embellishing the exact phrasings, but alas, what was a soul-searching Polish blonde to do? "So, let me get this straight: You want me to slaughter a cow and bring beef?"

There was no reply.

Beef? Well, how could I? Although, thinking upon it, I recalled a conversation I recently had with a friend who told me that to slaughter a cow is to help the environment because they are often emitting far too much gas.

Still, I fretted.

"May I bring quinoa?" I texted.

No reply.

Really, Martha Stewart Stewart Maui! He knows how to make a point.

On the day of the soiree I was beside myself. Because the extent of my "cooking" has more to do with placing mixed greens and a protein source into a large salad bowl, I opted to venture into Whole Foods, grab several items and rework them into a fancy container and fib about how it was all created—as if I slaved over the stove the entire day. I was certain that this decision had more to do with a roaming mood swing than anything else.

So, there I was, back at home after purchasing something from Whole Foods. I must have blacked out the purchase—in true Carrie Fisher Maui form—for when I looked at what I had brought home, I realized it was a vat of quinoa (as if to show Martha a thing or two, mind you!) and—what the hell?—prime rib beef? Well, I took a step away from the counter and sighed a horrible sigh. "I'll never be invited back to the High School sock hop—ever, ever, ever—again!" (I believe this was the Jan Brady in me coming forth and for God's sake, hopefully I could work my way back up the bunch toward, say, The Reasonable Greg.)

"Choose!"  I heard myself say. "It's the quinoa or the beef. Choose!"

Choose? How could I ask myself to choose? How positively Sophie's Choice of me! And at a time like this? I couldn't even choose if I wanted to stay in Maui for a year or move back to Chicago to be around family and other creative matters. My choosing gene had run off—somewhere—far far away. I was ill-equipped. Ill-equipped I tell you!

So, I did the perfectly natural thing a Carrie Fisher Maui could do. I introduced the quinoa to the beef and they fornicated in a bowl and I called it Super Protein Surprise!

Rosemary, lovely friend she, took one look at me as I told her about this on the car ride over. "Really? Quinoa and beef?  Oh my!"

"Well, it will be good for people! And ... I think the cows were organic, too!"

The setting of the soiree was in the courtyard of a lovely woman's home. Martha Stewart Maui greeted us—he was superbly dressed for Kihei's  90-degree heat—light fabric, button-down cotton shift with modest floral hints, white shorts and stellar moisturizer that made the face glow. Hugs were offered. Guests were introduced. Humor was dispersed.

There, before a glistening lima bean-shaped pool and some pool lights for the late afternoon spledor of it all, various place settings were arranged. Would Martha Stewart Maui have it any other way? Well, one simply could not mix the vegan dishes with the "meat" dishes, and the canapés had their own place, too. Soft drinks—wonderfully and neatly displayed atop an open bar. The music—upbeat, not too loud. Perfect in tone and style.

As I held up my beautiful potluck bowl, Martha Stewart Maui shot me a look.

"What?" I said. "It's Super Protein Surprise!" 

"What is that?" I believe he may have said, gently, as if not to spawn a mood swing.

"It's quinoa and beef!" I gushed—perhaps like an eight-year-old who was excited to have just made, from scratch, something like Pillsbury Easy-bake cookies.

"Quinoa and beef?" Martha Stewart Maui repeated. And then he nodded and leaned in. "Thank you so very much for bringing it."

I was instructed to set the dish "over there"—with the rest of the meat—on the outskirts of the fabulous yummies. Chicago's South Side to New York's Upper East. I tool no offense. However upon inspecting the fabulous dishes of freshly baked and glazed chicken wings and lean chicken breasts, I feared my Big Ol' Bowl Of Super Protein Surprise was horribly out of place. Then again, I mean ... there were more men at the party than women, so on the plus side: The sperm count would shoot far North of Anywhere anyone could possibly imagine ... should these men partake in my Quinoa and Beef Challenge.

The point is this: Carrie Fisher Maui's swing was horribly close to a "mood" and the only thing I knew that could save it was—damn it—protein. That brain—it needs ample doses, after all. I must have piled on too much quinoa and beef—remarkably thick on the gut I might add—and consumed far too much for my person. That, combined with what I was certain was freshly-squeezed lemonade from an organic lemon tree, directed my mental synapses into all sorts of diverting patterns.

Best to mix, to mingle, to partake in the festivities, I thought. And so I did.

There were about forty or so people in attendance—lovely souls. But Maui has lovely souls. Before official birthday wishes were granted—and all over a freshly baked organic lilikoi-something-or-other-cake/pie with raw vegan crust, I think—a blessing was in order. Kawika, a magical and lovely local gent who crafts Hawaiian idols by hand from the spines of sea urchins, offered Martha Stewart Maui his latest creation—a handmade necklace of one of four Hawaiian Gods. Martha Stewart Maui graciously accepted the gesture, perhaps holding back a tear in the process ... and then he stood by her man, the wonderful Maui Bob, placing an arm around his back. Kawika offered a short explanation about the Hawaiian chant he was about to say by way of singing. I had heard such a thing before—prior to my hula class, in fact ... a blessing/chant is offered before people step foot into the studio. Kawika's blessing was reminiscent of that blessing and brought with it the deep, hypnotic, ethereal elegance that is Maui.

And so, it was right there that, once again, Maui had showed me something rare (by Mainland standard's)—a gathering of like-minded souls unfettered by job status and "labels." These were people whose hearts exuded something beautiful and who wanted to share something beautiful with one another. These were creatures living In The Now; In The Maui of it all. This was a cast and crew of fourth-chakra curiousos, so many with spiritual leanings. These were Martha Stewart Maui's friends. And I had been fortunate enough to be among them.

The gift was being able to be there—to witness it all, as if it were a remarkable Maui kaleidoscope shifting beautiful colors before our very eyes. Martha Stewart Maui had something unique: presence. And we were all present to that fact on this special night.

Several hours later, as Rosemary and I helped in cleaning up a bit after some attendees had departed, I was handed a big bowl of something that positvely reeked of roast beef.

"Carrie Fisher Maui ... thank you for bringing your beef and quinoa," mused Martha Stewart Maui, tongue firmly planted in cheek. "Look—there's leftovers! Surely, you would like to snack on it tomorrow."

We laughed.

And then I took the damn bowl out of his hands and cradled it against my chest. "Well ... you told me to bring protein!"

Martha Stewart Maui patted my back. "There, there, CFM. It will be all right."

And then he disappeared ... somewhere toward the pool, toward the few people who remained, right back into the Maui Magic.

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!"

The Powerfully Unpredictable Waterfall That Is Nodus Tollens

This may sound like Confessions From a Former Professional Mood Swinger, but Dear Lord ... are you aware of what's happening?

Not to me, dear ones. Out there. On July 31, there's a Full Moon (it's blue but you don't have to be!), and Venus, Uranus, Vesta, South Node, Chiron, Neptune, Ceres and Pluto are all Retrograde, according to one of my spiritual pals.

(Wow. Tis true. I checked.)

Three words: Don't Freak Out.

All this retro-ing is good for review, however. Let's face it: The world as we know is shifting—for the better me thinks. (Despite what the media may be telling us.) Trust me—and I know that sounds weird since I may sound completely out of my mind being blond and Polish and mood swingy and all at once, but ...)—we are on the precipice of delicious good.

Here's the thing: A vast amount of us may feel as if we have been placed on a cosmic see-saw this summer. For me, at times, the breeze blowing across my face on the way "up" has felt just glorious—new ideas, new insights, new, new, new. However, on the way back down it has been a mixed bag of emotions—butterflies in my tummy every time I receive a vivid reminder that one era of my life is over and that I have officially stepped into uncharted territory without any real road map other than—what's this?—Trust?

TRUST?

I suppose that's a fine roadmap to have and if you're going to keep asking The Universe for signs and the only one it keeps giving you begins with the letter T than, well, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure it all out.

Trust.

How many of us are being asked to do just that, lately?  Perhaps you, too, like many others, including myself, are in a state of transition.

Last month, taking the baton the Universe handed me, I left everything and everyone I knew back on the Mainland and landed on Maui. When I say everything, I do, in fact, mean everything—career, home, life as I knew it. My belongings now fit into a dozen boxes and have taken up temporary residence in a storage shed somewhere in Northern California. I left "corporate media" on the 20th anniversary of my mid-life crisis—which I launched long ago to get out of the way (alas, it lingered)—and woke up in Maui. And so, for the past 30 days, I have been meditating more, journaling more, meeting new people, and overseeing a young olive orchard in the bucolic Maui upcountry portal called Kula.

As I previously wrote, tending to the olives affords me an opportunity to slow down—more than I have slowed down before—and pay attention (in a new way). The olive trees are good teachers, after all. They take years to grow and come into fruition so it's not as if one day you wake up and suddenly—boom, bam, there be olives on the trees! Eureka!  No, Mother Nature knows what the heck She is doing. She can take her time. And so, I monitor the trees every morning and night. Like a sheep dog on a prairie, I watch—and, me being me, I send off a blessing to the grove every now and then. Why not? Good juju is good juju.

As a result, in just a short amount of time, I have realized that the life I had prior to coming here was often filled with a never-ending swirl of "doing." In the past two decades, I penned five books—two which are published—oversaw creative direction of a newspaper for 14 years, wrote articles about Hollywood for magazines, covered red carpet Hollywood events, took three to four Bikram yoga classes a week, breathed in, out, and God knows where else, and taught a series of fitness classes, dripping in perspiration to arrive somewhere every step of the way (more or less). So now, as I reflect back on that era, I realize two major things. 1) That I rarely took the time to fully integrate all that I had accomplished and all that happened to me and the people around me—you know, as in, honor it. And 2) That somewhere in there, I lost the Me that was having fun being a creative person and began to crave the acceptance and recognition from the outside world (more). I was, in effect, waiting for the outside world to tell me: "Oh my God, Greg ... you've arrived! At last. Welcome! Here's a coupon for 20 percent off on the finest chocolate! Gosh... we sure dig you!"

Funny thing is, whenever "the world" did "validate," me, I rarely allowed it to fully sink in.

And that's the downright funky thing about that "I WANT" pattern. It has a voracious appetite and just keeps wanting—MORE.

We are often told that acceptance and love are an inside job, but are are rarely told that in the process of true self-acceptance and self-love we must confront our shadow side, which, let's face it, is not often glamorous. (Or so we think.) For me, the shadow is the place where Fear, Doubt, Worry and Shame, to note but four, seem to have been having one hell of a house party. My occasional (fine ... lingering) resistance to facing them has forced my mood to swing with reckless abandon (at times, but not all the time, I swear!) But I have come to believe that there is something lush and wonderful to be had if we simply allow ourselves to just sit in our own shadow. By allowing ourselves to face what is most frightening, it loses its strong current.

Basically, you go from "Oh S**t!" to "Oh Shift!"

I came across this sign recently and I loved it:

Indeed.

My entire Maui adventure, while remarkable and stellar, has had some strangeness. When you are asked to give up being the You you were being so that another kind of You can emerge, this thing called the Ego starts screaming: "Really? You've got to be kidding me with this? Can't we just go back to our regularly scheduled programming?"

I suppose we can, but would it spark real inner growth?

On the very same day I found the sign above, a friend of mine tagged me on Facebook. She had posted a List of Obscure Sorrows. There were 23 of them in there. To which I thought: "Huh, only 23?"

(What can I say? I am a writer, I mood swing and my habit of always wanting more nearly gets the best of me.)

That said, one term on the list stood out: Nodus Tollen.  It is the realization that "the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages that you don't understand, that don't even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapter you had originally skimmed to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose you own adventure."

Well ... that was just the right kind of spiritual Viagra I needed.

So here's a shout out to anybody who might be in the midst of their own Nodus Tollen: You are not along. Embrace it. Because ...

... the alternative may not be pretty.

I sense we are all being given opportunities to ask ourselves a very important question: How can I best serve?

Yeah. That.

Onward we go ...

More soon ...

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 ...

Here, Now, This, Bliss?

"So, if there is a hurricane ..."

My eyebrows arched suspiciously. I shot the owner of the property, a short, happy soul with welcoming blue eyes, a look. "A hurricane? Here? On Maui?"

"Well," he responded casually, "it's unlikely, but in the event of a hurricane ..."

Suddenly, at that very moment, standing on the lanai of his home in Kula, located in Maui's arid upcountry, I felt an internal storm front gathering speed from within. I had 17 seconds to change my thoughts—from fearful ones to: "Let's see, what's the best possible outcome should a hurricane hit Maui this season? Ahhh, yes, Greg—writing material!"

BEFUDDLED BLOND POLISH MAN-CHILD DEVELOPS FIRST GRAY HAIR AFTER WIND PICKS UP TO 70 MPH. WATCH THE VIDEO. NEWS AT 11. (OR IS IT 10 HERE?)

Back to the 17 seconds. Esther Hicks talks a lot about those 17 seconds ... how it typically takes that long for a thought to grab hold of you and swim around within the confines of your psyche and, she suggests, start planting seeds for the future reality you'd living. Or something like that. Basically: Your thoughts create your reality. To the degree on which we focus on good or bad, or whatever, it seems to show up in the world around you.

Personally, I like to think we are all like cosmic tuning forks, always pulsating and sending out a vibe into the ethers of time and space, and that we attract what we are vibing out.

There must be more poetic way to put that, however, I may have allowed the hurricane news to slip past its 17-second marker in my mind. A hurricane? Really? Well, the chances are slim. And I am the grandson of a resilient Polish woman who kept her children alive in the aftermath of Stalin, so, I do have that going for me.

Still, why do I keep imagining Sally Field in Places in the Heart, screaming and ranting and raving during the midst of a maniacal storm?

(I may have just truly dated myself.)

Back to the business at hand here on Maui: Exploring the deeper significance of home and learning to be "in the moment" ... more often.

Last night, around dusk, I drove the Jeep-like Polaris out into the olive grove, it's wheels rolling atop the deep rustic island dirt. Call me crazy—many do, in fact—but I have begun talking to the trees. (I know how that sounds.) But really, why not? I feel as if the olive trees appreciate me breathing around them; noticing them; offering a positive intention on them. Oh, I don't babble on about my human drama, some of which, surprisingly, still has its griphold on me. Let's face it: after spending decades in the "professional" realm, where one of the main goals was "to get ahead" and become "somebody" and "arrive" somewhere and all that, there must be a window of opportunity of detox.

I think I found that window ... although I sense my emotional ass gets stuck in the middle of that open window at times.

Let's talk about the olive trees. They are young and vulnerable. It will take five to seven years for them to truly grow; to become alive and more vibrant and ripe. And from there, they will most likely prosper. So, as I drove around the field last night, making certain some LED lanterns were on and the irrigation was working properly, I spoke to the trees. I sent a blessing off here, there, everywhere.

"Grow. Be safe, you baby olive trees! Prosper!"

And yes, it is clear to me that reading that back to myself makes me realize this: Perhaps it is a good thing that The Universe pulled me out of society and tossed me onto rural Kula.

Well, I want the trees to thrive. Truly. I want to be a good shepherd for them.

But I wonder if there's something that can be learned from these trees. Imagine waiting five to seven years to come to fruition? Do we have that kind of patience? Do I?

Do we have enough patience with ourselves?

It's a good question to ask. If I believe that The Universe—God, whatever—brought me to Maui for a reason and that one of those reasons was to be of service in some new way, and to take a deeper, more truthful look at the life I had been living prior to my arrival here, then, well, it must be true, on some level, that I am in a prime position for some kind of transformation.

Will I allow it? Will I be patient? Will I be honest with myself—look at the good (a lot of good) and notice the behaviors which no longer serve me?

I ask myself these questions because this morning I had a modest reaction to an email from a corporation for which I was doing some contract work. The email sent me into a modest swirl of uncertainty and lack: "Will they pay 'on time?' Will they? HUH, GREG, WILL THEY?"

Good Lord.

I set my iPhone aside, climbed back into the Polaris for the early morning Olive Field drive, and took a few deep breaths. And then I forced myself to look at the landscape in front of me—the vast expanse of rolling countryside unraveling beyond the region of Pukalani and toward to vibrant ocean is unlike any other I have ever seen. Big Sur, Monterey and Carmel, California, do come close, but there's something in the air here—it's subtle, its gentle, its significant.

Is it "Maui Magic," as some people have shared with me?

As I drove the Polaris, the moderate Kula morning breeze blew across my face and body. I noticed that a slew of robust, billowy white clouds covered the tips of the rugged, majestic West Maui mountains. Birds of many varieties were out in full force—nature's orchestra.

What on Earth could there be to worry about?

Where do you think you need to be, Greg? I asked myself. Where do you think you need to go?

The answer was evident: Here. This moment. Now.

It sounds good on paper—on screen—however practicing it may provoke a curious odyssey; a tug of war between the Ego and the Soul in a quest to either feel "at home" or "be at home" wherever one may be.

After my morning inspection, I sat in front of the computer screen for a bit and found a few quotes about "home" that struck a chord.

Love begins by taking care of the closest ones – the ones at home - See more at: http://www.verybestquotes.com/quotes-about-home/#sthash.n32XTZAj.dpuf

Love begins by taking care of the closest ones – the ones at home - See more at: http://www.verybestquotes.com/quotes-about-home/#sthash.n32XTZAj.dpuf

Mother Teresa, quite a nomad actually, said: "Love begins by taking care of the closest ones—the ones at home."

The olive trees. Where they were "the closest" ones at the moment in the "home" I was overseeing?

Maya Angelou mused: "I long, as every other human being, to be at home with myself wherever I find myself."

How "at home" do we feel—really?

One quote from Eckhart Tolle made me chuckle: "God is at home. It is we who have gone out for a walk." 

Indeed.

Onward ...

Love begins by taking care of the closest ones – the ones at home - See more at: http://www.verybestquotes.com/quotes-about-home/#sthash.n32XTZAj.dpuf

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.