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.

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.

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.