Beginning. Again.

 

I don’t know how to begin this piece because I don’t yet know where I am in this story. The beginnings and endings have become blurred. Perhaps, I will begin here simply for the sake of starting somewhere.

May 29^th, 2007. Late evening, the lazy summer sun just beginning to set. Ali and I met for drinks and dinner in our city neighborhood. I remember where we ate. I remember where we sat. I remember that I was seriously contemplating moving back to Maui to give that life a try. The details of our lingering conversation remain fuzzy, but I do know that by the time we said goodbye on the corner of 104^th, Ali heading into her building on the north side of the street and me into mine on the south, the night was deep and I had decided to move off my urban island. The next morning, she dropped off an 8 ½ by 11 piece of paper on which she had typed a quote by Goethe. I came across it the other day in an old journal.

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (& creation) there is one elementary truth – the ignorance of which kills countless ideas of splendid plans - that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves, too…

Yesterday morning, a young, Hawaiian woman ground a bag of coffee for me at a local coffee shop. She had a tattoo, big, bold, swooping across and around her neck. I couldn’t quite make it out as it wrapped around. Couldn’t see the beginning or the ending – both were hidden, veiled by her long, thick, deep hair. So I asked. She told me it was the name of a wind that blows on the Big Island carrying the scent of a certain flower.

Today I live in a land of many winds.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way…

In the dawn hours of a Wednesday morning this April, I awoke to an email offering me a job back in New York City. I would spend the year with 7 and 8 year olds, exploring the Hudson River. We would build and play and investigate and question and learn and grow. Again, I would mentor new teachers. Again, I would create. I would be near H and O and friends and afternoons spent wandering through my favorite narrow West Village streets or a new exhibit at Moma. My decision was clear. I was ready to go. I called the movers for quotes. I booked a ticket back to the city to apartment hunt. I found a realtor; she started sending me listings. The New Yorker arrived in my mailbox and there, on the cover, was a drawing of a dog, a spitting image of Petey, chilling on his city stoop. It’s a sign, I thought.

Meanwhile, the island became brighter somehow. Every rainbow, every cane field sweeping yellows and greens, every grey cloud afternoon, and the ocean shifting from slate to deep green to the clearest of pale blues. I wanted to be here now so I could be there soon.  For years, I had been asking for clarity and here it was. This is what it felt like.

The school year came to an end on June first. There were hugs, leis, good wishes and then I drove down the mountain. Ready. On second night of June, I went to a new friend’s home for a small get together. Dessert. Wine. He was the first person I saw in the small gathering.  I introduced myself. Offered my hand. He told me his name. Took my hand.

If someone else were telling me this part of the story, I’d be hesitant. Skeptical. Perhaps even write it off. Even I am tempted to do so.

Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin. Boldness has genius, power, and magic

in it. Begin it now…

For Steph.

With love, Ali.

In the fitful, sleepless early morning hours of May 30, 2007.

Two movies play in my head. Two versions of my life that co-exist in parallel times. In one, I am walking up the stone sidewalk along Riverside Park towards school, fall leaves twisting and twirling down to the hard ground below my feet, coffee thermos in hand. Music streams from a window. The yeasty, warm smell of bagels draws me across Broadway. I breathe and my breath is visible, a cool cloud.

In the other, the setting is less clear. The cast is changing. Auditions are still underway. Perhaps the path below my feet is paved. Perhaps it is sandy. Perhaps there is a honeysweet breeze flitting past. Perhaps it is another detour. Perhaps not.

“Hallo!” said Piglet, ‘what are you doing?’

“Hunting,” said Pooh.

“Hunting what?”

“Tracking something,” said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously.

“Tracking what?’ said Piglet coming closer.

“That’s just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?”

“What do you think you’ll answer?”

“I shall have to wait until I catch up with it.”