Commitment

I’ve been inattentive to this blog since I’ve moved here to Hawaii. I apologize. This afternoon, I was lying in bed, watching the rain soak the dense brush beside my small cabin, and it struck me that one of two things need to happen. Either this is the time to end the blog altogether, or it’s time to get honest about what’s really going on. My first two months in Hawaii have not been as glamorous as I’d like them to have been. In fact, they’ve proved far more challenging than I ever expected. It’s difficult to admit that. I approached this move with a lot of optimism. I still retain that optimism, but I have to laugh and remind myself daily that it’s a lunatic who moves himself mid-treatment to a distant jungle island. So be it. Said lunatic is now on said jungle island, and I’m faced with two immediate options: to leave if I feel this environment cannot meet my needs, or to stay and work to make this place meet my needs better.

I’m moving into a new room here at Kalani today, a bright, spacious room just off the dining lanai, very close to the kitchen. The maintenance crew is painting it. The housekeeping team is cleaning it. I seem to have everyone at the retreat on a mission to protect my immune system. This week I also cut back my work schedule to three days of work instead of four. In a “Kalani intervention” last week, two of Kalani’s managers asked me to imagine a more ideal situation for myself, and to use that as the negotiation point. The first thing I asked for was more time and energy to devote to my true purpose here: healing. My energy, being limited, is precious. I conserve and budget in an effort to honor the day’s priorities. Right now I need to put those things that strengthen and energize me at the top of my priorities. The community responded not only with understanding, but a few raised eyebrows. “Well duh,” seems to be the common response. “Take care of yourself.”

So the weight of responsibility falls on my shoulders. Haha! I’ve been given a new, clean, contained space. I’ve been given time and the blessing to care for myself. I don't know if it will wokr out here, but if I'm going to try, it requires a commitment on my part. So here goes, before Jah and man. (This is even hard for me to write!) I commit to practicing yoga twice a week and connecting to/strengthening my body every day. I commit to writing again daily, and posting an (honest) blog each week. I commit to practicing the guitar daily, and to using my energy to share both my love of music and love of theatre. Most of all, I commit to being disciplined and skilled at caring for myself, listening to my body, giving it what it needs to heal, and letting go of what it does not need anymore.

If you’re reading this, if you’re still somehow along for the ride as it shifts and grows, hold me accountable, okay? Thanks.

Stranded in Paradise

I survived my first inter-island chemotherapy expedition, though not before nearly jumping on the first plane back to Utah. I arrived in Honolulu last Thursday with my friend April. We flew from Hilo and ended up in a stretch limo by some stroke of luck, heading for Queen’s hospital downtown. Pele was looking out for me. My spirits dropped when I visited the doctor. I had started developing a nasty cold several days earlier. In Hawaii’s moisture and humidity, things like a cold don’t go away very easily. My doctor was reluctant to give me chemo and then have me fly back to the rural part of the Big Island where I was staying, so far from the hospital. What if the chemo caused my counts to drop severely, making it more difficult to recover? What if this was really the beginnings of a bacterial infection? I was caught in a catch 22. This is the first time I have had real obligations waiting at home for me. In the past, chemo took precedence, no question. If I needed to wait and spend a few days recovering with the aid of an antibiotic, there was nothing stopping me. That should be the case now, but now I had a work schedule, a return flight and nowhere to stay in Honolulu. In my gut, I knew the doctor was giving sound advice. You don’t mess with your health this way. But it is always so difficult to accept how unpredictable this process can be, especially when I feel others are relying on me. My best laid plans get thrown out the window, and Thursday afternoon found me stranded in Honolulu for five days with nowhere to stay, and few people to lean on. I was scared, questioning why I had come to Hawaii in the first place, so removed from my old familiar support system of friends and family.

But these islands have a surprisingly gentle compassion for the weary, when you take time to assess what you need. I asked for help from a few new acquaintances that I didn’t know very well. That night, I stayed with a new friend from Kalani, David, who proved to be an angel, seeing my near-feverish state, and nursing me towards recovery throughout the night. The next day, the American Cancer Society found a hotel for April and I to stay at in Waikiki, a fantastic discount for a comfortable room just minutes from the beach. David took us to the beach, and I began to think that being stranded in Waikiki might not be the worst thing in the world. I got a bit of a chance to play tourist for a few days, laying by the pool, going to see a few movies, checking out some cool local restaurants, driving with April around Oahu, even getting a hair cut at a fancy salon. For all its touristy hype, Waikiki was a nice break from the jungles.

On Monday, I received chemo as scheduled. The cancer center at Queen’s hospital is state-of-the-art, everything from hot blankets to keep you warm to lemon water to keep you hydrated. The nursing staff was exceptional and caring. They were concerned about my low energy level in general and also my stress level, as I continue to adjust to life here. Avis, the head nurse, urged me to take life as easy as possible right now, and to save the energy I have to put towards nurturing myself. It’s a tough negotiation as I try to take on more responsibility for myself. I’m learning how to ask for what I need from people I don’t know very well, and it isn’t always an easy thing to communicate that. But I feel so much compassionate support here, and a willingness on behalf of friends to adjust and respond, if I can first be willing to give that compassion to myself.

My brother Zach and I were talking on the phone the other day and he mentioned that he thought our understanding of ourselves is directly linked to the chances we take in life. Moving to Hawaii was taking a big chance for me, and I don’t regret it. I’m learning much about myself and how to care for myself. So I have much gratitude for the journey, bumpy roads and all.

Always Laughing

I swam with dolphins today. I heard once that on certain days, when the weather is just right, and the ocean’s tide is mellow, there is a pod of dolphins that frequent Kahena bay, a black-sand beach near Kalani Retreat. I had never witnessed the site myself before today, when the sun decided to shower the residents of Puna with its rays, and everyone ran for the beach. I arrived, surprised to see fins jutting in and out of the water, dolphins jumping, spinning and splashing back against the blue. At first I was hesitant, a little frightened by how close you could actually get to the graceful creatures. I’ve never encountered dolphins swimming freely in the ocean. So I swam with apprehension, inching closer and then backing away, noticing their ever-present smiles. I always thought it such a strange physical feature, the upward shape of a dolphin’s mouth that makes it look as though they are always laughing.

As my courage took hold of me, I started swimming closer to the pod. There was no single leader, at least not to the casual observer. The role shifted, depending on the slightest change in direction. One second, the group would be following one particular dolphin; two seconds later, the orientation would turn sharply, and the group would propel in a different direction. I moved in unison with the group, rubber fins allowing me to keep up with their speed. The movement was exhilarating: the group would surface, flip and spin all at once, and then descend back down to the coral-covered bottom, silently gliding through the rocks and in between schools of fish. The pod would arc, as though rounding a corner. I began to anticipate the shift, feeling almost synchronized to their motion.

I was stunned by the absolute silence and serenity under water. The last sixteen months have been a lesson in stillness for me, and silence: hours alone in the apartment, laying on the couch, quietly enjoying pure, undisturbed silence. Sometimes I think humans talk too much. I find myself bored, or frustrated with my inability to communicate my experience through words. There, among the dolphins, I reveled in the beauty of companionship without words. Communication, most definitely. But not words. What bliss, what absolute joy, diving in and out all day, darting up and down, surfacing and descending into the quiet serenity of the ocean’s depth. I imagine a truly enlightened individual may be reincarnated as a dolphin. The smile so permanently etched on the dolphin’s face is no accident.