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 ...

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.