Wait, for now.
… trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
- Galway Kinnell
Time.
It’s been eleven weeks since I posted a blog. Eleven weeks ago I met someone and time changed for me for a while; it became hazy, elastic, boundaryless, and filled with swimming and playing and lying beneath the stars talking story. Afternoons were lazy, evenings were candlelit. He was on island indefinitely. We had time.
Three weeks ago in New York City, my sister and O walked hand in hand under rain-heavy clouds, the sky ribbons of slate and silver. Bagpipers led the way as H and O, followed by friends and family, guided the way from their home to the venue where they would soon marry. Old men came out of barbershops to applaud the procession. People waved from restaurants, and H and O beamed happiness. I sidestepped friends blowing bubbles and ringing little bells to stand alone for a moment. I stood and watched H and O as they walked up the stairs and into their future.
The next day, my dear friend Katie’s mother had a stroke.
In the muted predawn hours that followed on that Manhattan Monday morning, I flew back to Maui. I flew across the continent and hours across the Pacific. I flew until I was home in my little house far far away. I flew until I was home with Petey my dog and the man I had met. That night, he told me it was time for him to leave the island; it was time for him to go back.
On Tuesday, Katie’s mother died.
When my mother died, Katie drove to Rhode Island and spent days with me and H in that shocked silence that follows death, in that time when comfort is found in the busyness of choosing music for the service and hors d’oeuvres for the reception. On my first birthday after her death, Katie showed up at my doorstep in the morning with lattes and croissants, much earlier than was her usual waking hour, so that I wouldn’t have to be alone.
The most I could do for Katie from 10,000 miles away was listen to song options for her mother’s funeral on iTunes and rate them with her over the phone. I savored every moment.
Fall has come to Maui. To visitors, it may be imperceptible. The sun still shines, the sky is blue, the sand is warm. But to those of us who live here, there is a clear shift. The air has a chill to its edge and the water is cooler. Ubiquitous guava stew along jungle paths, the air sweetened by the warm earth and the fruits' steeping juices. Were there no calendars, no iPhones, no newspapers, this is how I’d know that time was passing.
These days, I am drinking tea and eating chocolate covered marshmallows. I am spending time with friends. I am finding comfort and wisdom and magic in favorite poems by Billy Collins, Kahlil Gibran, Mary Oliver and Galway Kinnell. I am regrounding in downward dog. I am writing. And I am holding onto the possibilities of the future. And I am loving. And I am trusting.
The other week, my Kindergarten students walked into the classroom. The lights were off, and as the children came around the corner into the rug area, they froze, eyes wide, mouths open. On the far wall hung one short string of orange lights, a nod to the month of October. In the unlit corner, the orange lights cast a warm, amber glow. One child whispered, “That’s beautiful!” And then together, like a little Greek chorus, the others joined in, “Yes. That’s beautiful!”
They reminded me of all the tiny Beautifuls. Even when the Beautiful is not within reach. Even when it is a memory.
I spent this morning with Petey at a waterfall. For a while, we had the falls to ourselves. I sat and breathed in air infused with eucalyptus and ginger… until others found their way through the thick greenery and I let them take my place.
