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.

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 ...

 

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 ...

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 ...

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.
 
 

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 ...