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 ...

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 ...

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.
 
 

Home Is Where The Path Is And The Path Leads To The Path?

This week, I discovered a gem in Smithsonian Magazine. The article discussed the definition of "home." This luscious topic has intrigued me for some time, and during the past year, the idea of home and what it is, and where mine is, and who I am in relation to that "home" ... has been occupying my psyche.

Yes, the facts were clear to me: That last year, I had finished a 14-year tenure running a publication and moved away from the community I had known and which I had contributed. Home would be on my mind. And yes, I let go of the "home" I had there. And yes ... there was the book I was writing, "Grace Revealed." But really—I'm sure writing a memoir about my one-time homeless family, who were Polish refugees in the aftermath of Stalin's mass deportations in the early 1940s did nothing to spark my interest in the topic. (I joke, of course.)

Home. Think about that word: Home.

Say it and it most likely will conjure up many feelings. What is "home" to you? Is it where the heart is, as the old adage professes? Is the brick and mortal in which we all tend to reside?

Smithsonian Magazine wrote this: "When did 'home' become embedded in human consciousness? Is our sense of home instinctive? Are we denning animals or nest builders, or are we, at root, nomadic? For much of the earliest history of our species, home may have been nothing more than a small fire and the light it cast on a few familiar faces, surrounded perhaps by the ancient city-mounds of termites. But whatever else home is—and however it entered our consciousness—it’s a way of organizing space in our minds. Home is home, and everything else is not-home. That’s the way the world is constructed."

In fact, yes. That is the way the world is constructed.

So, what happens when you you have no real home; when you are in between "careers" or a life path; when you are nomadic? Where is home then?

Within? Without? Where?

Deep down, somewhere in here I am sure I know the answers to all these deep burning questions, and goodness knows The Universe may have so many more things to do than to continue appeasing me with "signs" from above, and indications on where to head next. In the midst of a book tour for "Grace Revealed," in fact, one of those signs came to me in an email and now I am overlooking an young olive grove in Kula, Maui—something that I never thought I would ever be doing.

I wanted bright lights. Hollywood. Attention.

(Trust me: even I know how cloying that sounds.)

This week, in my endeavors on Maui—in my quest to sense and feel what "home" is, and in between meditations and such, and olive tree watching (quite Zen, actually)—I came across a wonderfully historic town here. It's called Makawao. There's a bakery there that is more than 100 years old and a sweet Asian woman named Betty works there—she may have been behind the counter for a century! I purchased a homemade apple pie and ventured forth ... to The Sacred Garden. 

Overseen by Eve Eschner Hogan, who penned a great many wonderful and bestselling inspirational books, the place is, well, for lack of a better word, magical. Actually let's use a better word: Harmonic and Transformational come to mind, although Soul-evoking stands out for me.

So there I was, in The Sacred Garden in a jungle in the middle of Maui, a one-time journalist on the fast track (you're right—I still am a journalist.) I had only learned about the place two days prior—on the plane heading to Maui. The woman seated behind me mentioned a full-moon labyrinth walk and, well, my head spun around so fast I nearly tweaked it. "Where?" I gushed with child-like enthusiasm.

Wednesday night's full moon walk in the Labyrinth was indeed memorable for me. For starters, The Sacred Garden has a mascot—Bodhi. ( I love that he has his own web page!) Bodhi is a rustic-toned Saint Bernard/Rottweiller mix who just loves to have his tummy scratched.

 Bodhi also loves to walk the labyrinth on this own.

A harpist and violinist performed in front of magnificent Buddha statue prior to the group full moon walk. Afterward, Eve—stunning with a wildly angelic mane of blond hair—welcomed the guests—more than 50 in attendance I counted—and spoke about the life metaphors that can be illuminated when walking the labyrinth. Some of you may be familiar with this practice. For instance, Bay Area residents may know that San Francisco's Grace Cathedral boasts two labyrinths. Oak Park, Illinois' Grace Lutheran Church has one outside of the building. Labyrinths can be traced back about 4,000 years ago.

The idea behind walking it, is to begin with an intention in mind—clarity on something; guidance, you get the picture.From there, you move along the path and, well, be open to notice what happens; what you think, what you feel. You notice the experience you are having.

Observe. Experience yourself walking the path.

The first few times I walked the labyrinth back at Grace Cathedral, I was just wishing and hoping to get to the middle; to get to the inside of the labyrinth; the "get there." To ... uh ... "get" nirvana! Already. Please! NOW!

Right.

It seems quite clear to me lately that that way may not be the way for me to walk my path. I've been tossed onto Maui for goodness sake. Something is going on here. If only I can stay in the moment ... here. Now. And, value what is—now.

Not there. Not then. Here.

This may not be spiritual rocket science. We know the drill. It's implementing being in the Here and Now while you're in the Here and Now that gets tricky.

So there I was walking the path with about 50 or so other lovely strangers from all over the planet, underneath a vibrant full moon, whose moon beams glimmered through the jungle palms and banyan trees when, all of a sudden, my palms began to vibrate. I stopped moving for a moment, wondering if I would cause I bumper car-like collision behind me, and lifted my hands. I wasn't crazy. I felt the vibe. I felt the pulsation.

Was it me? Was the energy I could have been picking up on within the labyrinth?

Or both, perhaps?

A smile lifted my face and I ventured forth. At some time, along the outer perimeter, I stopped at each tiki torch and held my palms on either side: "I honor my power," I found myself saying, not quite sure why. (Well, I guess I knew why ... I still felt a bit "out of it" on some level after birthing "Grace Revealed" and all that post-partum "YOU'LL FEEL EMPTY AFTER YOU WRITE A BIG BOOK stereotypical stuff was lingering and I did not quite feel fully, ah ... "at home" ... within myself.)

Where was I? The walk. The labyrinth. Remarkable.

The following day, I returned to the garden. I meditated and pulled some Angel Cards in the Meditation Room—The Love card. I walked the labyrinth again, with an intention of clarity and guidance for home and life path. This was during the day on Thursday. Two other people, a twentysomething girl and a guy, were on the path, too.

I noticed that the young woman was picking up every yellow leaf she encountered along the path. I inhaled made a note of it and then I thought: Yes, abundance everywhere along "the path. You, too, can gather as much as you wish, dear Greg." (I may not have sounded that eloquent to myself on the inside.) Whatever. Onward I went ...

A few turns along the path later, I noticed that the woman had discarded her leaves. And then I realized how clear the path in front of me actually had become. In fact, I became truly aware that perhaps the young woman was not gathering the leaves to collect them like valuable coins. She was simply making the path clear(er).

For me? For the path? For both?

Not sure. The metaphor stood out: A path had been cleared at that moment in time. Could I benefit from realizing this? Could I see it, integrate it, be thankful for it and see the blessing?

Yes. Indeed.

And then ... somewhere near the center of the labyrinth, I was struck with inspiration ... that, perhaps, all of the roads we travel on in this life are simply the roads on which we travel; that "The Path" simply leads to "The Path."

If we can just walk it, be in the moment ... and observe.

Here. Now.

More soon ...

Mahalo ...

Mid-career, Midlife Meltdown or Divine Intervention? Decisions, Decisions

THINGS THAT HAPPENED:  I got a sign from The Universe to write about my Polish family's odyssey surviving Stalin. Reluctantly, I grabbed the spiritual baton being handed off to me several year ago. I researched, wrote and then published the book, "Grace Revealed," which was released earlier this year. 

And then I went mad.

Well, I wouldn't call it "mad"... in the sense that I went—how do I put this?—crazy. Actually, it was something just South of Crazy. Mood swingy. In fact, I may have perfected the art of Mood Swinging and highly recommend it because, well, nothing breaks up an otherwise boring day than ... a mood swing.

Where was I?  Ah, yes. What got me here.

In the Spring of 2014, the newspaper at which I had been editorial director and editor for 14 years, was bought out by a PacMan-type literary enterprise. Oh, it was a blessing in disguise really. (How many commas, apostrophes and periods did I have to babysit?) At the time I thought: "What divine intervention is this? OK, I'll just finish the book about the Polish family that is due by the end of summer and venture forth." 

And so ... the odyssey began. 

However, all the work I had been doing to secure myself as somebody of prominence—somebody that had "arrived," somebody of "status"—completely changed after that. In addition to being a newspaper editor, I wrote for national magazines, interviewing celebrities—everyone from to Chelsea Handler and Joan Rivers to Cyndi Lauper and Anderson Cooper. I thought I had hit pay dirt. Perhaps I fell face first in it? Who knows. It was a festive time and I may return to it. I did my best to illuminate the finer side of the entertainment industry and other agents of change in the world, however modern-day publishing had shifted do dramatically in the past decade. Writers weren't getting paid—much. At all. And the constant grind of trying to "arrive" somewhere; trying to get enough LIKES for this and that; trying to acquire "enough" FOLLOWERS ... I was exhausted.

So, on an adventure uncovering Stalin and my Polish family's mindbending journey I went—to Menomonie, Wisconsin (to finish the book and yes, I, too, looked up the heavens and said: "Menomonie? Really? What the hell is happening?"); Chicago (returning to family and launching the book ... and to consume as many carbs as any middle-age Pole could—have you SEEN the size of a Chicago pizza not to mention the girth of a pierogi?); up and down and all around (and on couches) all around California (to promote the book) .... only to get tossed out onto the sandy shore of Maui.

Yeah. Poor me, right?

This is going to sound "very California," however allow me to explain: Back in March, during the bitter depths of cold and massive snowdrifts in Chicagoland, I received an email from "my former acupuncturist." (You see, that does sound really really Californian, doesn't it?) Anyway, the email came from out of the ethers. She needed somebody to housesit in Maui.

I was at a crossroads. I had an interview to be editor of a top glossy California publication the following day. And then—boom—the email arrived: "Do you want to housesit in Maui?"

I looked up from my computer screen: "Really, Universe? Maui?"

My ego said: "But what about your 'career,' Mr. Archer?"

My soul said: "GET YOUR POLISH ASS TO MAUI!"

The latter won out ... but not without severe doubt in the midst of financial uncertainty and a series of precarious sanity checks.

And so, here we are. Reading this. I arrived in Maui—lower Kula—last night—and a new adventure begins. But my arrival here brings with it a great deal of uncertainty. What about my publishing career? What about the life I had built up prior to this? What about ... the rest of my life? What about security?

What about finding a new home?

Ah, home.

It's the very thing I hope to explore in this blog. (That, and some big doses of Maui culture and heritage and more.) 

Home: what is it? Where is it—really? Why do we crave it? 

Having come from a family of Polish refugees, this topic intrigues me. What makes us create the kind of "homelife" we create? Or want to?  And more importantly, who are we when our "home" is either taken from us or we suddenly find ourselves at a major crossroads in our lives, attempting to discover or rediscover who we really are?

Let the exploring begin. Thanks for being here. And as they say in these parts, "Mahalo!"