I am seeing that sitting down to write is the same experience I had when I first started running and exercising on a regular basis. I see that it feels good 100% of the time, and it doesn’t matter how far I go or how fast, what comes out or doesn’t–it just matters that it feels good, the thoughts dancing where they dance, the words laying where they lay.
I’ve got a “fisherman” character living in me that Abby and I have noticed over the course of us being alongside one another. He props himself up onto the kitchen counter in one swift jump, legs wide and chomp-slurping an apple. He sips on bourbon all night long between gulps of water. He isn’t the best at small talk but he’ll ask anyone about the dreams they’ve been having lately. He gets way too loud when he’s excited, and he gives a damn good massage.
Where it’s coming from > .
An ode to all the beautiful people I’ve met while working at the grocery store I’ve been at since last July: Alexandra grew up surrounded by nature–living in a forest until the age of 10, then moving to live beside a lake in the woods after that. She said a friend sometimes drives her to the McMenamin’s in Vancouver and she feels more at home–enveloped by green and looking up to see it towering above you. She wore a rose-gold shawl, and had a gray cashmere beanie that made her eyes look blue. But she said “well actually…” when I complimented them, and told me her eyes are green like mine, sometimes brown, sometimes lime.
Fox has a Pomeranian named Sierra and she is a heart-centered rambler (Fox is the rambler–not the Pomeranian, but maybe the Pomeranian too). A keen sense of kinship is felt between the way I can tell she doesn’t take the shitty parts of life too seriously–she’s got that Aquarius “it’s a spiritual quest to be even be alive right now dude” output.
The Leo Moons of the store included me, the main manager, and a girl with long silk hair with blues and purples, and the coolest pants I’ve ever seen. Loving on others is like breathing, like our hearts wants to hum with every heart it encounters –love on and play, lift, speak life, ignite the warmth of the sun from the inside-out. When we’re down, it is felt, and we rarely explain why. A new day can solve anything anyway. If not this day or the next, then it it’ll be the day after that.
Ruta comes to the store every Saturday, her bags neatly folded in her cart, and her reading glasses around her neck. She told me there is a creek next to her house, and a garden. She works with one of the supplement companies, and she met Dr. Bronnor. She said he is very down-to-earth and sincere-“a wonderful gentleman”. Abby and I were at a park once naming all of the dogs around us, and I named a tall distinguished blonde doodle “Dr. Bronnor” and Abby laughed that crinkle-nose laugh she does where her eyes close and her cheeks flood into pink.
There is a little girl who has a song to sing almost every time she comes into the store. The first time I ever met her I was standing by the register aisles and she ran up to me from beside her mom in produce and gave me a huge hug, then I complimented her dress and she began twirling and singing a song from a movie. She ran up to hug the Leo Moon Manager one day too, catching her off guard and I thought I saw Leo Moon’s eyes tear up, but maybe that was just the lighting and my imagination.
In the every day moments is where we build our lives–not through the displays, the sealed and delivered declarations, or the roles written in stone. Moments like the ones we have on the way to the next one. Where does your mind rest when it is resting?
My Dream: One day I want to have a rabbit and sometimes after I harvest my garden’s vegetables I’ll leave a bunch of them still there and let my rabbit hop around the garden finding them. And may there be a greenhouse in my future too, Amen.
(A continuation on the musings from A Day of Venus VI): I think I learned to speak from the space between my ribs and down to the base of my spine–that gourd always present for us to reach from–partly because of learning how to oli, to chant, to sing. It was in Halau Ka’ulaokalani, the name of our hula group or “troupe”, led by kumu hula, or hula teacher, Wayne Takemoto. From the age of 6 to around 13 I learned through song and dance the stories of Kings and Queens, gods and goddesses, and the celebration of plants, valleys, soil, stars–after that time and through high school we were just called occasionally to go dance at someone’s wedding, or 1st baby party, or community event. I notice when I am in front of people, behind a mic, a camera, or looking someone in the eye, when I am present and calm I speak from this place, sing from this place, give from this place.
As made up as this may sound, it is truth: I remembered the hum and melody of a song around the age of 5-6 that was the melody of a song playing while `I was born, and one my mother played a lot when I was in her stomach. It is the “Song of The Goddesses”, and I still have not found the exact song as it played in my head. (I will have to just sing it myself then eh?) But I will find one of it’s many copies from YouTube and post it here. It’s lyrics are the names of goddesses in repetition: “Isis, Astarte Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna”, but at the time I only heard the melody and not the words. When I asked my mother “mom, mom what song is this?” and hummed it for her, she asked me to do it again about 3 more times before smiling and then saying “ahhhh” before singing it out for me. I asked her several more times to sing it again, over the course of many years after that.
I ran away from the house and found hiding places when I was overwhelmed or scared. When we lived in Hau’ula it was on a sturdy branch of a tree that swung low over the shallow tide of the ocean when the moon was full, then was easy to just climb onto from the sand when the tide was low. I sang into the wind sometimes sitting on that tree, my voice getting carried so forcefully I couldn’t even hear myself. I remember looking into the water one day when it was particularly stormy–rain making little dents on the surface of the crinkled waves–when I saw a puffer fish beneath me and tried to touch it with my big toe.
Another place I ran to was all the way up Green Valley Road until I reached the fork in the road, and I went left just before the little pig farm to sit on the rocks beside one of the streams. I could step down from the road onto the dirt and rocks leading toward the water and crouch just under the rock wall where I couldn’t be seen. I would sit there until I forgot why I ran there, watching the river carry leaves, bugs, tiny fish and powder-like clay dirt. I made up songs, sang ones I knew, made shapes in the dirt with my fingers.
(to be continued from A Day of Venus VI)