marvel at something.

"When some guy who yes, looks a little like Yoda, hands you a prophecy, you have to respond."



So so excited for this.

Namaste friends,

Lizbeth

Free Spirit

This is Laura.

I honestly don't know what I'd do without her friendship...
or just, I don't know what I'd do without her.

the light

There is a time of morning between 5:30 and 5:45 AM. A tiny piece of the day when the birds have yet to start their song, tourists have yet to flood Starbucks for their morning jolts, and my mind has not quite come into waking consciousness. Hues of pink and gold begin braking through the clouds of dawn illuminating a sky it seems I'm seeing for the first time. And as light slowly pours through those puffs of white, I find myself saturated in the kind of crisp air one can only feel this early in a day.

Neighbors have yet to rise. This little spot on this seemingly, now, little island, feels completely isolated in its tranquil and zen like morning state. And through the piercing stillness all I hear is the sound of my sneakers pounding the asphalt, my heart beating rapidly in my chest, the new jams of Vampire Weekend and Rogue Wave streaming through my headphones. For these first 15 minutes it's just me and the sky and the most perfect 'good morning' I can imagine. I now have a new understanding of the runner's high.

I make my way down George Street and wave to the small group of construction workers assembling a large wooden fence around the house on the corner. On Hollinger Street I smile at my graffito friend Gandhi, then greet the sweet elderly couple out for their habitual morning walk. The gentleman always nods and smiles, his wife making sure to let go of his hand for just a moment to wave good morning. I cross the street and start down the bike path around Kapiolani Park. Now it's me, a few other runners, and (what appears to be) all of the dog owners in Honolulu. I see my usual favorites: a large golden named Henry, a pair of chocolate labs, and a sweet little mut named Koko. Koko remembers me this morning and I'm soon tackled with kisses. His owner and I both laugh and smile and wish one another a good day. This truly is the perfect 'good morning.'

I finish my loop around the park and join the overflow of caffeine addicts at Starbucks. I try adverting my eyes from any Newspapers refusing to ruin this purely internal and peaceful waking up with any information from the outside world. Then, me and my latte make our way over to the beach to sit in the sand and say hello to the ocean. I'm catching the midst of Dawn Patrol now. A few surfers catch waves before the rest of the day calls them elsewhere and I watch intently. I sip my coffee, close my eyes, and switch the audio to The Light by Philip Glass. This is quite possibly my favorite piece of music. I cannot imagine greeting the day, the ocean, or this breathtaking sky to any other soundtrack. I like to think Glass wrote this symphony with a view like this in mind: with a feeling of radiance and saturation from the most natural and awing of all light sources. I like to think he too once took in a morning like this.

I take a few final sips while walking back home. The birds are now in full song, neighbors move around in their homes, and I slowly find myself moving toward a clearer mind. But perhaps more importantly, in this moment, my mind is still. As I walk up the steps of the house and open the front door I am reminded of a notion by the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu:

"To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."

And I realize that that's it. That is the beauty of this early morning, of this sky, and this run, and that 15 minute window: surrender. It is here, in this first greeting of the day, that both the universe and I completely give in to one another. And as the rest of the day unfolds, we find ourselves that much more in tune, and centered, and alive.

Good morning, Hawaii.
Thank you.

Craigslist Cuckoo's Nest

I kept waiting for Jack Nicholson to walk into the room. Jack Nicholson as McMurphy: the man dodging prison by feigning insanity. I half expected to see him shuffle through the door in his slippers, Nurse Ratched at his side, preparing for another riveting group session. It would have been appropriate. I think I'd hardly have blinked twice had such fantastical events actually occurred.

I chose a seat on the brown leather couch across the room. I opened my book attempting to dive into the girls' book club pick only to realize that I wasn't going to get much reading done today. Eileen sat down next to me.

Eileen is a tall, slim, seemingly fragile woman. Her wiry black hair is twisted neatly into a bun on the top of her head. An antique gold locket dangles from her neck as she leans over regarding a pamphlet about Schizophrenia. She turns her head to look at me and stares. I continue looking at the page in my hands pretending to read, seeing her seeing me out of my periphery. I finally turn to look at her and she continues staring. Now I'm not sure if we're playing some sort of game or if she's frozen in deep thought. Neither. Eileen is just... slow. 5 minutes pass and she's finally opened her mouth to speak to me:

"Do you have diabetes?" she asks.
I look up from the page and reply simply, "No."

She stares. 2 minutes later replies, "Oh."

If trees could talk I imagine they'd sound like Eileen. I imagine they'd be careful and delicate. Words would flow on their own time, as if they had all the time in the world to be spoken. You can actually see the wheels turning, thoughts processing, mind soaring as she looks at you. And as you converse it feels as though she's been caught in the slow motion sequence of some bad film while you're in fast forward.

Steve sits in a rocking chair on the other side of the room. He's dressed in black slacks and a blue pinstripe shirt. Thick square framed glasses rest on the edge of his nose as he attempts to figure out the apparently complex remote control. Steve does not speak. He does not respond when spoken to. At times I worry he's not even breathing. He does firmly state that he has "issues with windows" and drags the rocking chair to the center of the room, right in front of the TV.

Nice to meet you Steve.

I'm thinking he and Helen might get along as she seems hardly verbal herself. She does however make a point of informing me about the large coffee she consumed before arriving.

"Do you think that's going to be a problem?" she asks.

"A problem for whom?" I reply.

She just stares. I don't think I gave her the response she was looking for. I look over at Eileen who's staring again. Steve is still not talking though now we're watching an episode of People's Court.

Thank you Steve.

For a moment everyone returns to themselves. Eileen reads the newspaper. Okay, she's reading it aloud but at least she's not staring anymore. Helen plays a game on her cell phone and Steve, well... he's now got issues with rocking chairs and sits on the floor: shoeless. For a moment I think maybe they're all just nervous. Maybe this seemingly strange and slightly precarious experience has gotten everyone a bit frazzled. Maybe I'm not the most normal person here... I'm just better at hiding my freakishness.

Cue Elaine. She is a force to be sure- a petite, supremely tan older woman dressed in a kimono like dress, with fanny pack, hair accessories, and garage sale jewels to match. I'm kind of hoping she's a psychic or a fortune teller, maybe even an old school hippie who just had too much fun back in the 60s. Of course Elaine enters the room, singles me out, and says:

"I know you. I know you... or maybe you just remind me of a soul I met in my past life. I think that's it."

I smile and reply, "Maybe."

For the next three hours Elaine will continue entertaining me with stories of her family, her ex-politician husband who slept around with numerous women, her Hawaiian daughter who's a hula dancer/dental hygienist, and her son who's apparently living in a room down the hall. She loves to give things away and attempts to gift me a hot pink purse "because it matches [my] snow white lips," countless pieces of jewelry, and a piece of art she constructed out of found objects including gold fish crackers and newspaper clippings. She gets nervous when learning Eileen's name. Eileen is apparently her lost triplet.

Come to understand now that Elaine is not a psychic or even a hippie. Not really anyway. She's is everything and anything it seems. She walks in and out of the room sharing various possessions, filling the room with stuffed animals, umbrellas, clothing, a ball gown, an Irish flag, a pink ukulele... She's like a Tim Burton character. Maybe if Burton ever re-made Marry Poppins she'd look something like this. After all, she's filling this room with enough stuff... who even knows where it's all coming from.

I try in earnest to focus on my book but it is nearly impossible. I'm now waiting for Robin Williams as Patch Adams to walk through with a red rubber nose. I'm now expecting to see Rudy curled up next to me, hiding from imaginary squirrels running throughout the room.

But this is better than fiction...


My dear friend Laura arrived on the island Wednesday afternoon. I had been anxiously awaiting her arrival after nearly a year apart. Laura spent this past year teaching English in Spain and being quite the world traveler at that. Lucky for me, I chose an exotic location, one Laura deemed enticing enough to visit!

I should not have been surprised when she called me the day before her arrival informing me that she'd made an appointment for a research study. She let me know that they simply stick your fingers 10 times within 3 hours to test glucose levels, then pay you $50 in cash and send you on your way. Again, I should not have been surprised that Laura would have looked into something like this while perusing Craigslist... needless to say, I too did my research, made an appointment, and got excited for my 50 bucks.

Little did I know that in between finger sticks, drops of blood, and chugging bottles of juice, I'd find myself in the midst of such oddity. But then again, I suppose anyone engaging in events found on Craigslist must prepare themselves for the possibility of bizarre and strange.

I spent 3 hours of an afternoon with Eileen, Steve, Helen, and Elaine. I officially gave 10 drops of blood and read 5 pages of my book. I came home with a 50 dollar bill and a rather large smile on my face. People are amazingly strange. Life is truly absurd. And I am funnily content with the goings on of that day.

Thank you Laura.
I look forward to the next adventure.

drop in the ocean

Act Great

I skipped to Day 44 in my Meditations from the Mat. Today I find this:

What is the key to untie the knot of your mind's suffering?
Act great. My dear, always act great.

-Hafez

And I find this:

...make a beginning. We can count on the new and the unfamiliar to be awkward. But the awkwardness of that first step is no reason for us to deny ourselves the opportunity to have balance in a given area of our lives. We we will have the degree of grace in our lives that we permit ourselves to have.


Act great. My dear, always act great. Let's not wait until we feel good and then begin the acting. We must act great all the time. "Instead, act as if" so that we may begin.

Let us sit and attempt meditation even as our minds refuse to quiet. Let us practice head stands even if we must use the wall for support. Let us be outspoken and outgoing even if our hearts pound and the inner voice of judgment creeps in. Let us get dressed up, throw on perfume, and take a chance... if only for one evening.

Act great.

Fake it until we make it, right?

you're in a car with a beautiful boy...

I'm standing in line waiting to order my Tazo Tea and can't help but overhear the young woman behind me recounting the details of last night's date:

"Now just imagine, you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and this and this and this)."

"And you're trying not to be self conscious but I mean, you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and that and that and that)."

"Then your phone starts ringing... while you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and on and on and on)."

And as this phrase replays in my mind, I pick up my tea, sit down in a chair, and remember why it's so familiar:

"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for."

-from You are Jeff by Richard Siken

In other news, I've officially been asked out on a date. A very real, grown up like date! And so it seems that this weekend I too will be a in a car with a beautiful boy...

(More to come!)

23

It was precisely 23 years ago today, well, yesterday, that my father had to forfeit the tennis tournament he would have undoubtedly won (as he likes to say) in order to meet my mother at the hospital. I made them go in on July 3rd and perhaps in an early exercise of my supreme stubbornness, did not make my appearance until the following morning. And ever since it seems to be: I like to do things in my own time, in my own way, when I’m ready.

Andy Rooney once said that the last birthday that’s any good is 23. Well Andy Rooney, I can’t say that I’m your biggest fan, but I’m hoping you got this one right.

23, I feel good about you.
Don’t let me down.