Aumakua

It’s Saturday and I am at the beach.

My friend turns to me and asks “If you were going to be a sea animal, what would you be?’

(These are the kind of questions one asks another while lounging in the sun on Saturday on an isolated beach belly filled with PB and J and potato chips)

She says she would want to be a turtle. I tell her I would rather be a dolphin. When she asks why, I respond quickly: “Because they are never alone.”

This answer surprises me. But the truth of it hits my heart with greater shock.

Earlier that afternoon we had seen a school of spinner dolphins swimming and playing the ocean before us. I had never seen them before, though I come to this beach multiple times in the week. They jumped and spun and flipped and squealed until they were out of sight.

I thought how much fun they must have with each other and how they must feel so safe knowing that they are all together. When I swim in the sea or on land, I do it alone and have only my wits and some pretty rusty karate moves to protect me. My best playmate is my own imagination and she is CRAZY if you haven’t noticed.

I find myself yearning for a dolphin school of my own; the safety of friends and family around me who know my fins and flippers, can communicate without words, can sense each other’s need for a nuzzle or a spin. I yearn to not be so alone in this world of mine.

As I sat there musing on this I let my gaze coast along the water in front of us. And then I saw them, the school, was right there, so close you could see their dark fins. I wasted no time, I yelled to my friend as I went charging into the water; “Come Ann! We are swimming with dolphins.”

Ann and I swam quickly to the spot where I had seen the dolphins but they had vanished. We swam out farther and farther and farther, farther than I had ever been out. I was getting frightened. We had seen no sign of them. The water was deep and we were past the protection of the reef bay. I asked Ann if we should go in. She was determined.

Try Wait.

Then just seconds later we saw it. Something big and black with a very pointy fin was coming straight for us.

We both did a sudden gasp which we later confessed was a “I really hope that is a dolphin and not some huge giant man eating porpoise.”

Within the time it took to take a deep breath we were surrounded by them. They swam in groups of two and three, and followed each other in instinctual formation. I dove down beneath us to see one swimming underneath and I could hear them calling to one another in those little squeaks and squeals. Their silvery backs bobbed in and out of the water as they enveloped us. I am not sure if either of us spoke and if you could have taken a picture of our faces at that moment you would see the sight of true awe and wonder.

After the final preliminary circles they began to play around us; suddenly bursting out of the water in a spin or a back flip. They held us close as we all swam along back towards our beach cove. And then just as suddenly as they arrived, they were gone.

Walking the beach later we bumped into a father/son who had watched our whole endeavor and shared their fear for us.

“There was a shark in the water,” they said.

“Oh, no,” we corrected them, “those were dolphins.”

“Not the dolphins. There was a nine foot shark in that reef right where you were headed before the dolphins came to you.” They explained how they had been snorkeling when they saw the shark headed to a spear fisherman’s catch that he held in bag near the reef.

Ann and I stared at each other. We didn’t need to say what we were thinking. We knew those dolphins came to protect us and to move us away from the reef and back to our safe cove.

In the days following this I have had moments of pure disbelief. To any of you who have shared an experience like this with a wild majestic creature you understand how there is this breathless no words can describe pure high of such a sharing.

It is truly one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

I am captivated, entranced and enlightened.

I told my experience to a Hawaiian family I am working with and they shared my awe and wonder of it. They spoke of the specialness and significance of being embraced by the dolphins. They also spoke of the Aumakua, which are the spirit animals families have as guides.

My Dolphin Aumakua is my family out here in the islands.

When I gaze out to sea I know that they are out there.

And I don’t feel so all alone.

Molokai Madness

Molokai Madness

For those of you readers wondering “How long can someone live alone in almost total seclusion on an almost deserted island before she looses her mind?”

The answer is… six months.

Coo-coo for cocoa puffs.
Lost her marbles.
Gone bananas.
Off her rocker.
I’m breaking down and falling apart,
And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men,
No one could put humpty dumpty back together again.
I’m cracking up and there is no nice way to say it.

Maybe if I could go into a Starbucks (judge away!) every once in a while and sit in the cool comfort of plush upholstered chairs, air conditioning, canned hip music, and consistent coffee beverages… maybe then I could make it.

Maybe if I could get a jar of almond butter without having to donate a kidney to pay for it….

Maybe if I could wake up to a world of cement and pavement where the voices of the trees and bushes demanding attention like unwanted step-children could not find me…

Maybe if I didn’t have to stare into the mysterious chemical abyss that is my swimming pool…

Maybe if I could have one day of rain...
Just one day.
(strangely just started raining when I wrote this)

Don’t get me wrong.
I love Molokai…
I just can’t stand it!
I want to sneak out while the cats away and jump on an airplane headed to somewhere HUGE with coldness and lots of hard ground and traffic and Starbucks on every corner (continue judging). I want people in my space, getting all up in my grill, invading my privacy and what not. I want to see folks in the rat race, working for “the man,” complaining about pensions and retirement packages and the failing economy. I want to feel the vibe, the pulse, the heartbeat of a city!

"Try Wait" I remind myself.

Then I take a moment here on my little island to walk outside under the cool moonlight.
It throws itself over the ocean where the waves are growing everyday with the promise of surf and winter storms.
My cat’s white hair glows as she sits calmly on my lap and we smile as we listen to the wind rustle through the palm frawns.
I smell the ripening mango from the tree next to me as it wafts over through the night air so fresh and so clean.
My skin and body and all the places in between let go and relax.
And I hear the island say: “Not yet, you are not ready yet. We have other things to show you before you leave.”

“How about showing me a decent Americano for crying out loud???” I joke (but not really).
I know the island is right.
I know this madness is only temporary.
I know I am just growing and I know that this current frustration will schluff off like an old skin in the coming weeks revealing something… I know not what.
Something amazing I guess!

Like a Starbucks? (i am shamed)

Try Wait

A mysterious buzzing sound around the main house had been swirling around my sub-consciousness for several days. My mind must have put it in one of the far corners of my brain in a file marked “Signs that Casselle is going Crazy” and forgotten about it.

But when I noticed the giant swarm of bumblebees around the front cottage my mind quickly re-filed “mysterious buzzing sound” into conscious memory. The swarm was like nothing I’d seen before. It was dark and massive and full of fury. I courageously looked under the cottage awning to see what the jazz was all about and it was there that I was confronted by a giant nest of clustered bees.

Thousands and thousands of them working furiously on their hive.

I was horrified.

And yet I could not take my eyes off of them.
They seemed to have an energy so frightening and intense that it captured me and stuck my feet in place.

Later, after I had pulled myself from their trance I called the bug man. I am fond of this bug man for many reasons. Number one reason: he kills centipedes and scorpions that would otherwise feast on my flesh. Number two: he calls me “sweetie” and “honey,” (terms that endear me to someone immediately).

The Bug Man comes the next day with his special bug killing arsenal, takes one look at the nest and says that he will have to kill them unless I can find some bee keepers to come and take the nest.

I frantically call two folks who keep bees but not one answers.
I have guests coming in two days and the Bug Man will not be able to come back this way until too late. It is now or never.

I wait a few more minutes for my phone to ring with hope that the bee keepers will respond but… nothing.

I look into the sad eyes of the Bug Man and give him the go ahead nod.
I feel as if I have just pushed the button to have the atom bomb dropped on Nagasaki.

Minutes later an entire colony of bumblebees, thousands and thousands of them, lie in a puddle in the bushes, their hive in shambles. A few stragglers who were away collecting honey during the massacre fly around in vain looking for their home, for their queen, only to find the sick smell of poison and a pile of bodies.

Just as the Bug Man loads up the last of his equipment the phone rings; “We would love to come and collect your hive!” she says.
I am speechless.
Eventually I squeak out “They’re gone.”

The tears swell up in my eyes.
I try to hold it together for the Bug Man but he knows he better get away quick-like or he is going to have one broken down, sobbing, inconsolable, caretaker on his hands.
He speeds away to his next appointment just before the tidal wave of shame and sadness and anger washes over me. I run to the shower in hopes that I might wash away the great crime I have just committed. But I fall apart anyways and great waves of sobbing choke out my heart.

There is a popular saying here in the islands about taking your time.
"Try Wait," they say when us mainlanders are pushing and racing around like we got a lion at our back.
"Try Wait."

If I just would have waited 15 minutes.
If I would have not let fear guide me I could have saved them.
The colony could be on its way to a special new home where they could buzz, buzz, buzz all day long and be no harm to anyone.

My mother, who is visiting this week, saw the cracks appearing in my already rocky sense of self and got on the internet to find some validation for the crimes I had just committed. “They say swarms in July mean there is no queen so the hive would not have been useful to the bee keepers anyway.”

I decide not to remind her that it is the end of August and that the rules of "mainland" seasonal rituals don't necessarily apply hear to the tropics.

I stare out the window and look down at the bumble-bee mass grave under the palm trees and cry a little more. I say a little prayer but I know it’s no use. In my faith, you don’t get away from atrocities like this no matter how much you pray.

Days later I am still hearing the buzzing sound.
I think I'll try wait next time.

Don't tell anyone...

Around the table a new group of acquaintances discuss the recent Molokai gossip. An unpopular man from the west-end was found semi-conscious in a pool of blood. He was placed in a helicopter headed to the nearest functioning hospital off-island. Even before his body had left the ground folks began to satisfy their curiosity of events by making up their own stories.

“He was shot,” they say.
“No, his wife pushed him off the roof.”
“He jumped after finding out his wife was having an affair.”

Even at this small gathering of people I can see the roots of some good rumors taking hold.

Interspersed between tales of this man’s recent demise they bemoan the difficulty of the rumor-mill that is the reality of living on a small island. After three hours of listening to them discuss the woes of who said what about who and who about what one of them turns their attention to me.

“Wait,” he says, “We have all been talking about ourselves and yet we know nothing about you.”

Six hungry faces stare at me hungrily.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“How did you come to live on this island? What were you running away from?” they probe.
“Well, it’s a long story,” I begin “And I don’t tell a lot of people. But I know I can trust you all.” Their faces glow in anticipation.
“One word,” I hint, “Mafia.”

Living on a small island means that nothing you say or do is in confidence. Even the things you don’t do or say are subjected to public opinion as one woman tells me, “I stopped going to parties because I didn’t want to get so misconstrued by everyone. Next thing I know I have a new diagnosis in the community as an Agoraphobic (someone who never leaves the house). “
Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

I’ve decided that if people are going to spread rumors about me then I want them to be good ones… hence the mafia story. I am also working other avenues… maybe some scandal regarding me being a serial killer.

You see, when you live on a small island, especially on Molokai, and ESPECIALLY on the West End, there is very little that changes. Locals fight to keep things the same, and then create drama, adventure and intrigue as naturally as the sea creates the shoreline.

I want to make it clear that I am not complaining about my new acquaintances’ ability to gossip. I quite like it… to a point. The characters of their sagas have as little to do with me as I have to do with the sheep herding practices on New Zealand and yet… It feels good to be around a group of highly animated folks discussing such trivial things that have nothing to do with me. I don't have television you see and so have spent way too much time in my little hobbit hole (the caretaker cottage) thinking and am in dire need of something or someone to bring me out of this self-obsessed state.

I indulge myself in the stories, and place as much attention to them being truth as I would in believing the reality of a sitcom. It’s still good entertainment though, no? And maybe by adding some red herrings about myself into the mix I can stir things up to the point where we will all get so sick and confused of the gossip and start talking about the things that are real… like the Venus star arriving as the first light in the sunset sky.

“What are your secrets?” he asks.
“I’d rather put my hand in a bee hive,” I think to myself.
But instead I say, “Don’t tell anyone… but I used to…”

You fill in the rest.

I Love This Island

I love this island.

I love how it reminds me of everything I cherish about Africa, with its dry western hills of brush, and pock marked roads. On an evening walk you almost expect to be confronted by a lion’s roar or a giraffe galloping across your path.

I love this island and its night sky; staring up into the heavens and becoming lost in the magic of shooting stars so clear and bright it looks like the fourth of July in the middle of June.

I love this island with its long white beaches filled with seashell treasures that collect on my bookshelf. Little piles of white, orange, purples and pink.

My papayas grow tall and green along side the small sprouts of kale, arugula, beets, peas and carrots. The red dirt almost vibrant in contrast to the fresh leaves it gives way to.

Days quickly flow into months as marked by another full moon and I wonder if there was ever a time in my life I felt as connected to the ground, to the earth, water and sky around me.

Was there ever a time I felt so connected to myself?
What a gift. What a precious gift.

From Blue to Green

All around me I am being confronted with the fragility of the human body. Everyday a friend comes to tell me of another family member with cancer, another stroke, another baseball to the eye. Sometimes the sadness of it and my inability to help them rolls me up into an angry little bowl of frustration. Can we really be this susceptible to injury and disease? My own body struggles to fight a virus and fails, leaving me aching in bed, sad and blue, unable to get out into the garden and take care of all the green that is just as fragile as my own human form.

I gaze out at my browning Carissa plants and am reminded of the Pygmies (also known as the forest people) of Africa.
They classify the death of a loved one in three phases; “dead”, “completely/absolutely dead”, and finally “dead forever.” “Dead forever” being the stage when the pygmies would throw themselves onto the ground with demonstrative wailing and flailing of arms followed by three months of mourning including dancing, singing until dawn and offerings of bananas to the sacred Molimo instrument.
Looking at the brown twigs that line my drive, I hate to admit it, but someone better find me a Molimo.
Fragile little things, the Carissa and I…

When feeling powerless over your universe I always find it helpful to take one area of your life and become overly obsessive about it. In doing so one can hopefully dive into a fantasy of imagined control. (Oh, sweet delusion, you are my friend.)

In lieu of the increased cases of illness around me and in me I turned my focus to health and wellness.
My obsession? My diet. Not like a loose weight diet. More of a cleanse, clear, feel better, gain superpowers (with which to heal all mankind) kind of diet.

Over the past week there have been many failed attempts at this shift ranging from saying goodbye to coffee to doing a lemonade fast. All attempts put me in place of sheer despair and drained my essence like a Gelfling from the Dark Crystal.

(Note: If you have no frame of reference for the above metaphor please rent The Dark Crystal because I can think of no better analogy for the complete dilapidation of my spirit and life force caused by the cessation of caffeine and food products)

So I decided that instead of restricting my diet I would simply begin adding more healthy components. And this has worked wonders. I feel like ME again!!!!

Secret of my success?
It’s called a Green Smoothie my friends and though superpowers have not fully manifested themselves, I have no doubt that within a short time I will be X-men, Heroes, Marvel Comics material.

Simply place green leafy things in a blender, add frozen fruit and water, hit chop, pour, slurp and whabam! You are on your way to happy wellness.

A few days into this Green Extravaganza it rained for nearly 12 hours. This is unheard of during the summer months on the west end of Molokai. As my body was finally feeling better I went out into the garden to work and enjoyed the cool drops falling on my skin as if I too were a plant in need of a good watering.

Then this morning, after blending my Green Drink of All Goodness and rejoicing in my restored wellness and health, I happened to pass the Carissa plants. Wouldn’t you know it?? They are only “completely/absolutely dead” and some you could even go as far as to call just “dead.” Put the Molimo back on the shelf and peel yourself a banana kids, it’s a Molokai Miracle.
How can this be???

I have two hypotheses.
One: The Carissa plants need more water to be green just as I needed more green to be me.
Two: I now have magical powers and bringing plants back from “forever dead” status is only the beginning.

I increased the sprinkler times on my completely dead plants only as an act of precaution.
You see, I am convinced that I am magical and have the power with which to heal life forms, not only those of the leafy variety, but also those of my friends and their families and beyond. Any requests loved ones?

(Oh sweet delusions! What would I do without you?)

Letting Go, Goodbyes and Other things that are hard to do...

I don't understand.
My Carissa plants are dying.
They are getting water, they are getting sun, they have everything they need and yet... they wilt, they tilt, they brown and crumble.
"Sometimes plants just die," Boots tells me.

But why?
Surely there was something I could have done differently?
Surely I have made some grievous error that I must amend!
Or, is he right?
Maybe sometimes, things just die,
and it has nothing to do with me at all.

The other day the pool turned green.
This is a most feared experience of all caretakers..
I weeped, I cried, I shouted.
I called friends from far and wide for support
What had I done to deserve this?
Hadn't I given it everything it ever wanted and this is how it repays me?
"Sometimes it just happens and we don't know why. It's a mystery," the Captain states.

Boots jumps into his car.
His brown guitar case next to his packed bag in the back seat.
Cowboy hat sits passenger.
He's shirtless and beautiful and I can see the excitement of upcoming adventure shine through those blue eyes.
They are getting ready to fly far, far, away.
"Do you think we will ever see each other again?" he asks.
"I don't know," I say.
He drives off and I walk back down the road lying to myself about how "fine" I am. "Perfectly fine," I think.
Just wish I had some whiskey lying around in the rafters to swallow this big lump in my throat.

"Funny how love comes and goes," she says.
Staring out across the ocean I understand.
Love is the tide in the sea and we are the shore.
We are not the sculpting it. It is sculpting us.
And I feel powerless again...

Plants are going to die, pools are going to turn green, friends will leave.
And though whiskey does solve a number of problems these are not any of them.
Sometimes you have to let go, say goodbye and then get on with the shovelling, the scrubbing or the sobbing as the case may be.


In the end, despite the difficulty and pain of it all,
new plants will arrive,
the pool may mysteriously turn clear,
and I'll be glad I loved while I had the chance.

Just wish I could skip over all this hard part.

Hookers and Strokers

I'm sure I've had pain like this before. I'm sure of it… I just can't remember when. I mean my toes hurt all the way to my ear lobes. The backs of my legs are covered in bruises as if I'd been pole dancing all night. My arms hang from my side like two giant cement blocks that make it difficult to even write. I am feeling muscles in my back expand, contract and convulse to the point that I fear at any moment I will metamorphesize into The Incredible Hulk.
The cause of all this pain?
Don't tell my parents.
I've started hookin'
Hookin' and strokin'.

It's not as bad as it sounds.

Three weeks ago I joined the outrigger canoe paddle team and three times a week I meet with five other ladies and our coach Joshy for run, paddle, hook and stroke.

Given my primordial fear of getting kicked off the team (post trauma from being an exceptionally clumsy adolescent) I have been pushing myself beyond the confines of my previously identified "woosie" self and hence here I sit on a Friday night with aches all the way down to my mitochondria.

If you have ever gazed at the beautiful paddlers out on the ocean, gracefully floating above the water, paddles in sync, moving along effortlessly you would never guess that they are using every muscle they have.

I am learning this, the hard way.
"You are going to have huge arms Casselle but you wont get anywhere unless you use your legs!" our coach Joshy yells at me. "Twist, push it forward, extend, stab and pull, in together, out together, long and hard Gangey, long and hard! Dig! Dig! Dig!"

Don’t even get me started on "changes." Basically your worst nightmare. Pulling yourself out of the water into a moving canoe by "hooking" (hookin') your leg over the rim and throwing the rest of your body over and immediately begin strokin' (paddling). Sound difficult? Well, it is, hence multiple back of leg bruising situation.

Also learned important lesson regarding appropriate clothing for paddling. Unless you want everyone to see your private parts be sure to wear tight fitting swim wear as the force of the water will take anything less clear to your ankles thereby extending the sexual innuendos of hookin' and strokin' pole dancing analogy.

Right now we are at the beginning of our training which means it is only going to get harder, which means… more pain.

If I am going to avoid Popeye arms I will have to figure out what my coach is yelling about regarding the whole twist, pull, dig, stab rigmoral.

He calls us his "Gangey (Gang-e)."
"In together, out together Gangey"
"Good job Gangey"
"Long and hard Gangey."

I've never been part of a "gang" before much less a "Gangey." And I have to admit it feels pretty cool. Especially to be part of a gang of super strong intense beautiful Hawaiian women

This is why I keep going back despite the aches. I keep going back for the Gangey. That and the ocean and the amazing rush you get when you're stroking in sync, you feel the wave underneath you, you catch it and it pushes you forward gracefully onward.

Constant Companion

Here is the picture that I will paint for you:
Me, in pajamas, old man slippers, crazy bed head, sun rising behind me as I go stumbling down the driveway to the main house where I take my morning coffee. Look a little closer and you will see a small white cat following closely at my heels. Her light yellow markings set off the translucent green in her eyes and she begins to tell me all about the previous night's adventures.

Meet Haole, my constant companion, my new best friend, and the only thing to talk to on the west end that is not a figment of my own imagination.

I think Haole must wait in the Kiawe forest for me every morning. I picture her squatting there among the grass and the thorns, those intense eyes of hers watching my cottage door for any movement. Her timing is impeccable. It seems that she knows better than I when I will be waking up.

As she narrates her evening's escapades I go about the morning chores; dumping the compost, checking on the papaya, sweeping, etc. She is up for anything and will not let me perform any of these tasks in isolation. As I boil water for coffee she winds herself in and out of my legs, patiently waiting for the moment when we will sit down (my coffee and journal to my right and she to my left) and take in the morning.

Haole cat is a staple of Paradise. She has adopted Miller Molokai as her own home and will take in any guest as her new owner for the week. This is quite charming I believe and many guests find her to be a highlight of their stay.

The only problem is that Haole believes she is truly an equal member of the place. She helps herself to any food that might be laying about; a bowl of fresh popcorn, a loaf of bread, some marinating shrimp. This then leads to me yelling and making strange noises with which to scare her from the counters. To these sounds she will only glance at me confusedly as if to say: "What is it dearie? Are you having a fit? Come here and share some of this delicious shrimp I found. That will set you right!"

(Haole speaks in a British accent by the way)

There is also one other problem with Haole. She likes to give me presents. These presents come in the form of beautifully colored aviary creatures which she brings into the house and proceeds to tease and torture at my feet before beheading them. Many a morning you could sit outside the glass doors and watch the pandemonium that ensues; me with tears in my eyes, screaming, chasing Haole, Haole chasing bird with feline intensity, bird flying wildly into the walls only to be stunned and recaptured, me finally giving up, sobbing at the true reality of nature, trying not to notice Haole gulping down brightly colored feathers. She looks up at me proudly; "Now that was a jolly good show, mum. I quite enjoyed the part when you tossed the bird into the wall. Shall we have another go?"

One time I was able to save the bird and it found its way into a tree. But a few minutes later Haole brought it back to me in her mouth. She meows incessantly until I look. "Let us do it again!" she says excitedly.

I don't think she is bad cat. I really do think she wants to please me. She stares at me sometimes as if she is pondering what she can do to make me happy. Unfortunately there is much lost in translation between our two worlds. I can so easily miss-perceive her behavior as an act of defiance or cruelty when truly her instinct is good natured. Isn't this true about all our companionships, even inner-species ones? If only we can take the time to have a little understanding for those closest to us. For now, the closest one to me is Haole. Literally and figuratively, she is sitting on my lap as I write this, staring at my fingers typing.
"I do like the part about the bird!" she says. "Speaking of birds…"
Oh Haole!

Barking Deer by my Bedside

I awoke before dawn to strange noises outside my bedroom windows.
My heart was already pounding as if my body had heard the sounds before my mind could even get involved. All my senses sharpened on the footsteps that surrounded my little cottage and my eyes attempted to make sense of the silvery figures that floated ethereally in the moonlight. Terrorists? Ghosts? Reindeer? Reindeer Ghost terrorists???

The full moon still lit up the sky despite it nearing 5am and bathed my back yard in a glow that made the coats and antlers of my guests all the more haunting. The westerly wall of my room, made up primarily with windows, allowed me a unique opportunity to spy on my visitors. From the shadows of my room they could not see me and as the creatures came into focus my rapid heartbeat became one of excitement rather than fear. Only feet from me I was watching a huge herd of barking deer feasting, existing together without the knowledge of human presence.

Though my instinct was to frighten them away to prevent any more of their carnage fest on what remained of my grass, garden and sprinklers, I stopped myself.
I became aware, this feeling, unmistakable, that they belonged here far more than I. And that they were not the ones disturbing my sleep or my naupaka plants but that I was the one in the way of their nightly travels through the land. So sure I was of this that I half expected them to walk straight through my walls and stand inquisitively at my bedside, munching on my bedspread.

I couldn't breathe and dared not move. I sat there entranced with their different shapes, from fawn to buck, and listened to their intimate conversations attempting to translate the barks, grunts and gurgles into something I could understand.

As I waited for the sun to rise and as my night visitors dispersed to greener pastures I was struck by the magic and the mystery of the morning and of all that surrounds me here.

I've been trying to figure things out you see. Miller Molokai has brought me a lot of new challenges and I am in a state of constantly trying to manage it all; the pool pump, the sprinklers, the fertilizer, the bug control, weeds, etc. This coupled with a natural tendency to reduce anxiety through organization has led to a life where the enchantment of everyday things is chopped up, dissolved, and diffused so that I make order, so that I may neatly fold it into a box and place a label on it.

It is as if, by putting a label on something, we can then imagine some sort of control over it. I see myself do this not only with the objects around Miller Molokai but in my new friendships as well.

I rob myself of the enchantment that is inherit in all that surrounds me when I attempt to "make sense of it." It becomes lost when our human mind tries to find order to the seeming chaos. There is something miraculous in letting life and all it brings to offer (be it new relationships or creatures of the night) unfold from the box and go undefined.

The barking deer woke me up this morning.
They woke me up to the absolute bliss of living in a mysterious and magical world.

"I had a farm in Africa… (ehem) I mean Molokai"

The most hated day of all days here on Miller Molokai is weed whacking day.
On this day one of us must don the awful machine and walk through the surrounding brush to tame back the encroaching weeds.

What ultimately happens is that miniscule bits of rock, dirt and debris are propelled at high speeds towards your face and limbs leaving cuts and scratches galore while sweat trickles down your spine and your back screams out in pain all in a vain attempt to make the unruly grass disappear.

I don't like weed whacking.
I am not very good at it either which also increases my intense (can I say loathing, yes I can say loathing) LOATHING of it!

Fortunately for me I have a Sasafras-cas who I send out to do this chore.

Sasafras-cas is not very good at weed whacking either.
What she does have going for her is a wild imagination which can turn any menial task into some sort of adventure. When challenged by an activity, she will cast herself as the hero or heroine of some cultural expedition, assume the identify of a National Geographic Explorer, or create a drama so exciting that even weed whacking (most hated of hates, most loathed of all loath'ed) will become something as important as the search for the Holy Grail.

(Side Note: Sasafras-cas is obsessed with Indiana Jones movies and dreams of one day starring in a new trilogy called Indiana Jane where she recreates the three films in exact detail but with one added accoutrement; boobs.)

On more than one occasion I have seen her prowling through the brush (on an errand to check the sprinkler heads and make sure the barking dear have not eaten through them*) talking to her individual camera in a Steve Irwin-ish voice. She will look down at the deer poop as she gestures for the camera to zoom in as she explains the danger of these ferocious blood-sucking beasts. "Careful. They might bite your head off… if you're lucky!"

*(I want to clarify that the barking deer are not part of Sasafras-cas's wild imagination. They are real and they do eat through the sprinklers. The notion of them being of a vampirical nature, however, has not been proven.)

Right now we are reading "Out of Africa" which could not be anymore up Sasafras-cas's alley. She'll go out into the Papaya Plot in the morning just as the sun is hitting the budding leaves. With the wind in her hair she'll get a far off dreamy look in her eyes and whisper in her best Meryl Streep-ish voice: "I had a farm in Africa."

When Sasafras-cas has to weed whack she will again transport herself to early 1900's Africa where she alone, a woman, a baroness no less, must save her coffee plantation from drought and disease.

It really helps her get through the day and when she comes in from the "fields", covered in dirt, sweat and grime, her eyes sparkle underneath her straw hat as if she holds secrets that which she will never tell. I just love that about her.

The only problem that I have with Sasafras-cas's overactive imagination is what she does with the sounds of the night. Here in the quiet of Miller Molokai all you hear are the waves, the wind, and an occasional palm tree branch scratching the roof.

She hears these things, puts them into the movie set that is her mind and spits out a horror story unfit for the most seasoned viewer. When this happens I make Sas don her most strong, fearless character and shout; "Be ye Beast or Man, Respect the Treaty!"

This "treaty" states that "they" (the mysterious sound makers) can do what they want outside the confines of our Castle (ehem, I mean cottage) as long as they don't try to get in.

Living in the middle of nowhere means that you have to draw up these invisible contracts with nature. If you don't, you could loose your mind.

And truth be told… we have a pretty loose grip on that one to begin with.

Running Through Sprinklers

Remember running through sprinklers as a kid? Remember the rush of excitement as you approached, the thrill and wild sense of abandonment as you leaped through, hands in the air, eyes blinking, smile from ear to ear?

What if someone had told you that you could one day grow up and be a professional "Sprinkler Runner"?
Because it turns out you can.
I did it all day.

Let me explain:
Here on Molokai, water, as everywhere else, and especially here on the west end, is very precious. The conditions here are naturally those of a desert climate the which Miller Molokai has turned into a little oasis of tropical delights. These delights can not begin to be satiated by the infrequent clouds bursts that God gives forth. That's where the sprinklers come in; miles and miles of underground tubing, piping above ground, various spickets, sprockets, and spouts raining out the necessary H2O that nourishes the most beautiful landscape that surrounds me.

All of these said sprinkling accoutrements are coordinated by an electronic box which appears as strange and mysterious a control panel as found on the starship enterprise.

Our job here, as the caretaker, is to turn on the sprinklers (beep, bop, boop) and walk (skip, jump, leap) through them all to make sure they are working properly. There is always, always, always something wrong with the sprinklers and we are always, always, always finding ourselves head first in the gushing water trying to fix the problem.

This would be annoying except for the fact that we LOVE running through sprinklers. We LOVE the muddy ground that squishes up between out toes, the tickle of droplets on the skin, the cooling mist on our face

I wonder how different our life path would have been if someone had asked us as a child; "What do you want to be when you grow up? Do you want to be a doctor, a lawyer or would you like to run through sprinklers all day?"

Skin-Safe

I have decided to give my body willingly to the insects.

I will no longer engage in a fruitless battle to keep them at bay.
No matter how much bug spray, they continue to feast upon my flesh.

Much of my day is spent applying lotions and potions to every exposed skin cell. First there is the lotion to soothe the dry skin, then there is the sun screen to avoid further damage, then an all over dousing of my new perfume called "OFF" to prevent bug bites, followed later by spreading Calamine lotion on those teeny bumps where the little jerks managed to find some un-deeted epidermis.

This all has led to me to a new invention.
It is called Skin-Safe.
It is going to be really big one day.
What is it you ask?
Well, it is a giant tub that is filled with a serum of lotion, sunscreen, bug spray, anti-aging crème, and Calamine relief. Each morning you simply dip yourself into this vat and it clings to your body like a paraffin wax, protecting you from all the elements the earth may throw at you.

It sounds a little crazy I know, but for me, it's either that or space suit.

Tell 'em Dave Sent You

Every time I leave the house something new and interesting happens. Maybe life is always like this but only when we are paying attention to it.

The other day I went for a run. I turned right on the main road.
Alone with my thoughts, the pock marked pavement, the Kiawe trees… I passed no one for miles.

Then from behind me a sudden voice boomed out "I don't wanna scare you!" I jumped at the bicyclist's sensitive warning that had ultimately caused what it had hoped to avoid.

He said his name was Dave and as he tried to wrap his mind around my name I took him in. Dave is an older man either in his 60's chronologically or as many years of hard work stuffed into a smaller amount of time. His white hair sets of bright blue eyes in the face of a ruddy complexion tanned dark from months of Molokai sun. He smiled and I saw a few teeth missing and what with his holier than not shorts, bare chest and broken slippers, if I was anywhere but here, I would have take him for a bum. But this is Molokai and fashion is not always top on anyone's priority list.

Dave and I began chatting and somehow without saying it straight out we had decided that it was time to end the solitude of our daily exercise. When you live in such isolation you form friends quickly with those you pass on the street or beach. There is no such wastefulness of polite nods and quiet "Good Morning's" that would so begin and end a typical relationship of two humans passing. The chance of seeing another is so rare that you must take full advantage of it. I wonder if this is how the people of other remote places in the world feel. When you see a figure in the distance you are pulled by atomic energy towards them, chatting at length, and then bouncing off from each other fully charged and refueled by the interaction.

As I ran along with Dave, he pedaling slowly so I could keep up, we filled each other in on only the necessary parts of our life story with which to give us a structure for the further more interesting conversation.

Dave comes to Molokai six months a year then returns to Canada where he is a "trucker" along side his brother. (And yes I did have to suppress a giggle every time he said "about" as "a-boot". I don't think I will ever get over that. Why is that so funny? I am even laughing now just thinking about it).

Dave has just recently retired though and when he returns home in two weeks he will be returning for the first time with no work to be done.

As he spoke I felt the fear and the underlying panic that Dave has most likely been carrying with him ever since he arrived. Now with his trip coming to an end, the monster of the unknown is at his door.

How do men survive this? All your life long you are taught to give your life to work. You are forced to work so hard that you actually must make as if your life is the work. Then one day they tell you it is over and you are left, at the age of 60, having to create a new life for yourself. How does anyone survive it?

I told Dave about what I do. I felt it important to be as vulnerable and forthcoming about my own fears as he had been with his; my new job, which has not begun, as a family therapist, feeling tense and anxious regarding how I will be accepted in this new world to which I am a stranger.

Dave offered me a few names of people I should talk to, to help get me started. Actually, he couldn't remember their names. He could only reference them with such details as; "The large beautiful Hawaiian woman married to the old Haole. Everyone knows her. Ask for her house number at the post office and go knock on her door and tell her Dave sent you."

He also wanted to support my running career and gave me several other houses to go knocking on for a partner. "You know the grey house on the corner? There is a dark lady there. I can't remember her name but I think her husbands name is Peter or Jim. She would like to run with you. Tell her Dave sent you."

I pictured myself walking around the West End of Molokai knocking on people's doors. "Hi, my name is Casselle. Are you Peter or Jim's wife? Dave sent me."

We filled the rest of our time together looking into bird's nests, discussing different legends of Molokai folks and debating the authenticity of such stories. We then began a recap of our most recent literary explorations.

As I forced my now weary body up the last hill (Dave said I had to run it) he entertained me with a summary of "Paris 1914" the book that he just finished.

I wanted to know more about Dave. I wanted to know what intrigued him about history, why he never married, and what possessed him to return to Canada when he could just stay on Molokai. But I was out of breath and Dave was out of time. As we parted ways he asked "Do you usually run at this time?" I confessed that I don't usually do anything "usually." Meaning that my life is currently an unscheduled boundary-less matter that bends and flows to the whim of my each moment's desire.

Of course I didn’t have to explain that to Dave, he knew what I meant. We knew we would most likely not see other again. We bounced off each other, he pedaling down the road and I slowing to walk down my street, both of us feeling satiated with our 60 minute friendship.

The Personification of a Pool Pump

So many fun adventures to tell you about. But first we must share with you the complete discombobulation that comes with having guests in the main house. Just before they arrived there was a mad dash to not only get their home sparkling clean and ready for habitation but also to put our own new cottage in order. The walls were painted (YAHOO!) the carpet yanked, the floor scrubbed and the pictures hung. This would not have been at all possible without our faithful companion Mr. Miller Molokai himself who on hands and knees scrubbed my poor floor. Mr. Miller was also instrumental in the decorating of said cottage which has now become a darling little place for yours truly and I am quite happy and settled, despite the fact that I have no bed. It's on its way.

So now back to the guests. For the past few days we (me and the girls) have been having difficulty balancing our desire to give the guests privacy with our need to do all our work. Who wants a creepy ole' caretaker wandering about when you are on vacation with your family? We are trying to think of how to manage but as of yet we are at a loss. LV says all we need is an invisibility cloak but I don't think she understands how hard those things are to come by in times like these… especially in times like these.

The biggest hurdle we have had to face in all of this is the serious sickness that has befallen our pool pump. It was sometime Thursday night of last week when Mr. P (the pool pump) picked up a serious virus and failed to do his regularly scheduled shift of vacuuming, sucking and filtering of the pool (and yes we are personifying inanimate objects now, thank you very much.) When he didn't show up again the next day I went down to check on him. He lives under the house of course. I noticed that he looked a little worse for wear but that's Mr. P for you. He's always been a bit leaky and rough around the edges but has never let you down. Despite his appearance he takes great pride in his work and likes his pool to be the clearest, cleanest one around.

I went to turn the ole man on and that is when I heard him groan, putter and poof. I thought he was dead. I gave him a little resuscitation (flipping the circuit breaker) and found that he still had some life in him. I told him to hang on. "Don't you quit on me Mr. P!" I said in my most authoritative voice. (I don't think there were many pool pumps involved in Vietnam but it seems to me that Mr. P has the look and attitude of a Vet and responds better to soldier like talk.)

I quickly called all the experts in the field of pool health and they all seemed to be preparing me for the worst. Mr. P was dying and there was nothing I could do about it except for count my losses and order a new pump. "No Way!" I yelled "No one gets left behind or replaced just because they have fallen on hard times! Mr. P has served our country (I mean my pool) for six years without one complaint. I will not just cast him out to sea for a new model!" (By the way, a new pump costs a million dollars so that had a little to do with my enthusiasm as well).

Finally I got someone on the line who could help me; Dr Dean Chow, Molokai Chiropractic, carpenter and pool fixer upper extraordinaire. He said he would be there as soon as he could… which meant… Monday morning… three days away.

There is no pain like the pain of seeing a dear friend struggling right in front of you, and despite your multiple degrees from very nice colleges, you are still completely inept to help or heal them.

We are at a loss with the pool pump species as this is our first Electrical Pumping Appliance Relationship and have no idea where to start. What was worse was when the pool began turning green. Mr. P was so ashamed and embarrassed he started leaking big chlorinated tears from his intake valve. It's hard to watch a man cry, even if he is actually a pool pump.

Come Monday morning our Dr friend was no where in site. The girls and I couldn't take it anymore so we decided to get our tool belt on. It was time to learn a little bit about pool pump technology. We managed to take the whole things apart and identify where the major issue was coming from just as the Doc showed up along with his French electrician helper. Steadfast we worked together, sweat dripping from our brows, the girls and I working as nurses, holding various instruments, screws and surgical tools until "Sacrebleu!" We had found the problem. Turns out Mr. P had a case of Agent Orange (multiple bits of debris) in his wheelie-doo-hickie. These had caused his copper flux capacitor what-cha-ma-call-it to rust and break apart. Not such a great thing but not as expensive as a new pump and when said part is located can be surgically implanted by yours truly who is now pool pump expert. (I use the term expert lightly. If you have a problem with your pool I would call me. If you want to know the actual names for pool pump parts I would call someone else.)

We are not out of the woods yet. Mr. P has been put on the list for a copper sealant thinger-ma-bob transplant. As soon as I get the call that an appropriate donor has been found, they will ship it over and I will be able to put him back together again and we can all get back to work. For now Mr. P is on an extended leave of absence. I have ordered him to not even think about pumping. He is such a work-a-holic though I doubt he will be able to stand it for long. LV did say she saw him among the papaya plants chatting up that cute little sprinkler system we got in there. Way to go Mr. P.

As for me, I'm feeling pretty successful now that the stress is off and feeling pretty fancy now what with all my knowledge about pool pump technology. That's what is so cool about this place. There is so much to learn, so much to explore. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. Dr Dean Chow says I have an adventurous spirit. He can tell cause he has one too. That's why he is a chiropractic/ carpenter/ pool fixer upper extraordinaire. We just love people like Dr. Dean.

Meet Boots

After a long day of staring at the plants and talking with my selves I decided it was time to leave the cottage and go into town. I live on the West Side of Molokai which is like a Beverly Hills to Los Angeles. Though white people are a minority here on Molokai the west side is full of them. This does not lead to streets seeping with Euro-Caucasians by any means. In fact I can ride my bike for miles and not run into a single soul of any colored flesh. For many reasons, the which I will not go into fully at this moment due to my own lack of understanding, the west side has become more Haole and the east side has been reserved more for those of Hawaiian blood.

(Side Note: Hawaii and especially Molokai has such an interesting history. If you are interested in history or just want a good book try "The Shark Dialogues" by Kiana Davenport.)

The town of Kauanakakai is situated in the middle of the island and in being a town brings all folks together. Going to town is quite a chore. It takes a long time to get there, a good 30 minutes I think and sometimes you will go all the way into town and they won't have what you need, like a light bulb or some bananas. (It's freakin' Hawaii, how can we not have bananas? It's okay.. I am now growing some outside my bedroom window.)

On this said day I went to town to meet a new friend at the bar Hotel Molokai. (There are two bars in Molokai but Hotel Molokai has a transvesite waitress named Yvonne, live music and a wide mix of people- watching available; tourist, haole and local). My new friend, (we will call him Boots cause he wears cowboy boots) sat at the bar and within minutes had me laughing so hard I was crying. After no human contact (imaginary friends aside) the smallest bit of conversation was titillating. My new friend and I have a special bond due to our common interest in western wear. As we chit chatted and bonded above bar it seemed out boots below were having a special bonding moment of their own.

The Hotel Molokai was a happening hot spot but we, Boots and I, were not feeling so "hot" nor "happening" so we mosied (as all real cowboys do) out of the saloon and made our way to an even cooler spot called the Hui, also known at the Retreat Center. Hui in Hawaiian means to come together for something. It is a commune of sorts where people live together and give retreats on Yoga and writing and photography and lovely things of that sort. It was dark by the time that I arrived but I could tell by the sounds and the way the shadows of the palms played with the air that it is a beautiful place. It smelled familiar to me and reminded me of a home I am not sure I ever had. It brought out that feeling of security one has as a child when your main job in life is just to play.

I met several new people who all had iphones and we spent time playing the iflute which is an amazing thing by the way. Did you know you can play flute with people in Czech?

We also gathered in song to listen to Boots and one of the Yoga Instructors play guitar. I lounged on the couch and decided that I was in heaven. On the way home I thought how nice it is to have a new friend, especially one who wears cowboy boots, plays guitar and is so kind and thoughtful.

This island keeps unfolding so many beautiful things for me. It's hard to take it all in. That's why every night we eat three tablespoons of Peanut Butter. It helps things stick. 

Songs of a Girl

From Songs of a Girl by Mary Carolyn Davies

There are three of us; the little girl I used to be, the
girl I am, and the woman I am going to be. We
take counsel together concerning what colors we
shall weave into the dram that we are making.

Sometimes they say, she is day dreaming,
they do not know that we are taking counsel together,
the little girl, and the girl that I am, and the woman
that I am going to be.
There are many things that they do not know.

The Papaya Farm

The days are now running together. We are all over the garden attempting to make sense of it. It seems so big. Sometimes I can't wrap my mind around it.

A couple of days ago we planted the papaya farm which is the cutest little farm this side of the pacific. In a 40 foot square fenced in plot there lie around 6 rows of raised red dirt which now have sprouting from them 32 beautiful green fleshy plants. Some of the darlings are a bit older and are nearing a foot tall but most of them stand mere inches off the ground. The green strikes a heavy contrast to the red dirt, especially when a new leaf has just emerged with a color that is almost neon.

Mr. Miller Molokai (who is visiting this week)is pretty smart about what these plants need and showed us how to make bowls around each seedling so that they can hold more water. With the dirt and the rocks they end up looking like bowls of chili. Especially when you put the water in them. The papaya plant then acts as a sprig of parsley.

It took me a while to plant them as I had to make sure that each chili bowl was symmetrical. Then what with all the relationship building going on with each plant... you can see how it would take some time.

My favorite one is Wilbur. He is the smallest one in the batch and so is named after another famous farm runt. In his little sapling container he had been overtaken by a large weed. When I removed the weed along came most of Wilbur's delicate root system. He is so small that I am not sure that he will make it. I vow to sing to him everyday so that he can grown some new strong roots.

I walk out to the papaya farm each morning. Give them water and miracle grow and sing to them. I think they like gospel.

This is my life now… covered in red dirt, singing to papaya plants.

The day goes by so fast that it feels nothing has been done and only my exhausted limbs, sore muscles and a ravenous appetite prove that I have worked. I still haven’t moved into the little caretaker cottage yet. Its bright pink and blue walls plead for attention. "Please paint me!" they beg. "I'll get to you," I promise.

Walking the garden I note all the pruning, weeding, and fertilizing that must be done. Then I step back. So much seems to be happening underneath the surface, under the ground where the roots are sucking the dry earth for any remaining droplets of moisture. These roots secure the plants to the soil, to each other, fending off high winds that might otherwise sweep them off to sea.

Above land, no roots hold me down in one place. I wonder if a big gust of wind might fly me right off this rock. How I wish sometimes I could settle down, allow some roots to anchor me, tie me to a piece of earth.

Day Three: The Invention of a Friend

Day Three

Day three is being brought to you by Lemon Verbana also known as LV. She is whom I send out to do the hard jobs here around Miller Molokai a.k.a. Paradise. Just in case you thought all we did for a day was sit around and stare at plants (there is quite a lot of that) I have described for you below a typical "work" day.

Today LV woke up before the sun because she was actually excited to start shoveling all the mud from the walkway. She's crazy right? Do you see why I keep her around though?

(Side note: Whenever it rains here, which isn't very often, the long driveway becomes a torrential river carrying all the dirt, gravel and rocks from its expansive stream and placing them, very inconveniently I might add, onto the front steps of Paradise.)

I told LV that all the mud is going to come right back down with the next rain and she's going to have to shovel it all over again. She said she doesn’t mind. "It’s a meditative practice" she says, which doesn't make any sense to me and I doubt she knows what it means either. But hey, "Whatever floats your boat LV!" or should I say "whatever fills your shovel."

After the driveway was replaced I noticed her standing in the trees with lilikoi (passion fruit) juice squirting all over her face and clothes. She's like an animal with those things. Crawling through the brush her eyes will light up on one of those little yellow fruits and then with cat like intensity she will pounce upon it and begin devouring the thing like a woman starved.

One thing I know for sure: you do no want to get in the way of LV and her passion fruit. Watch out!

Next time I saw LV she was cleaning the pool. She was having a heck of a time with that vacuum hose. From where I was sitting it looked as if she was in the clutches of a giant sea squid. I went down to check out my hypothesis. She said she wasn’t sure if it was a sea squid or not. She cleaned the pool from top to bottom, up and down with the giant hose. "Boooring!" I said. "You have to do this every other day?"
"It's meditative," she said.
"Whatever LV."

Something even more crazy about LV is that she has a kindness in her heart like nothing else for a dead animal. Earlier in the day I saw her near the dumpster lifting a great big dead bull frog from the road and placing him in the grassy field so he could have a "proper resting place" she said. Later I found her underneath the house by the pool pump in the company of a dead centipede. She was really struggling because LV doesn't care much for centipedes. She gave him a name, Samuel, and said that's all she could do at the moment. I bet you anything that she goes down there tomorrow and digs Samuel a grave and says a few words. I tell you that LV is something else.

She worked hard all day long while all I did was clean the house and cut come flowers for the guests. I got myself one library card too and some good books on gardening. The LV and me, we are going to have one heck of a garden.

I'd have to say the best part of LV's day had to be when she went to the Plumeria Farm. She said there was a big dog barking and she didn't know if she should run or not, when all of a sudden a nice man named Dick came to the door. He walked with a cane and had a sadness behind smiling eyes. He would have reminded her of a friend she met during the war… if she had ever been to war.

He told LV that they didn't have any leis for her to bring to her guests but when he saw her deflate like a purple balloon he suggested she sit down, tell him a story and he would teach her to string a couple leis. LV just loves people like Dick. She told him about her day, the mud walkway, the dead animals, and the sea squid as they delicately threaded the soft perfumed petals into beautiful leis.

Day Two

Day Two

I woke up today with the knowledge that this beautiful home is now my responsibility. Yikes! It feels like going from taking care of a cat to being in charge of an entire endangered feline species. I would be lying if I said I am not concerned. The plants outside my window eye me suspiciously, wondering if I am up to it.

I walked down to the beach this morning and sat and watched the waves come rolling in and out. Papahaku beach is three miles of beautiful sand and not a soul in site. It would be a great place to meditate. In fact I tried. I sat, towards the sea, cross legged with hands face up, my eyes closed and I emptied my mind of all thoughts… for one second. Then I started thinking about breakfast. Stopped myself, watched the waves, and contemplated the impermanence of all things before deciding to defrost some chicken for lunch. GRGH! This whole mediation this is difficult and not as much fun as food.

I gave up and went back to the house where I stared at the plants for a little bit and upon feeling overwhelmed treated myself to a nap. The plants glared at me as if to say "we knew you weren't up for it." "I'm tired" I thought back in my defense. They were not impressed.

Later I went to pick up my car from the wharf where it was arriving from Honolulu. Taxi driver "Harley" drove me there. He had just been married the Friday before. I asked him if it was his first marriage and he got really quiet and I silently cursed myself and my unbridled curiosity. He broke the awkwardness by showing me a framed photo of him and his wife. So precious! He keeps it face down in his front seat and handles it with such delicacy you would think it was the most valuable and fragile thing he owned. Shouldn’t we treat all marriages with such tenderness?

We arrived at the wharf and Harley gave me his card and told me to show it to anyone who gives me trouble. I immediately pictured myself in some sort of "trouble" and having to dig through the disaster that is my hand bag, looking through the gum wrappers, to do lists, and receipts, weeping in the face of my attackers because I can't find Harley's card. (I have since organized said handbag and know exactly where Harley's card is so attackers beware!)

Harley apparently knows everyone on the island which is about 7000 folks. I believe him because everyone we passed on the road waved and honked at him. "That's my cousin," he would say, "That's my other cousin, and my other cousin and my auntie…" and so on and so on. He and his wife had to have a secret wedding because if not then the whole island would have shown up. But boy did he get a scolding from his Aunties at Friendly Market who weren't invited. Not pretty, so I am told.

I retrieved my car from the wharf and was sadly disappointed. After driving that shiny red rental car my old Saturn looked like something pulled from the bottom of the sea.

When I got back to my little cottage (I have my own separate residence away from the Miller Molokai) I began unloading the jenga puzzle that was my belongings. I had hurriedly stuffed all that I own into my car upon learning that I could pack as much as I could get in there.

I love seeing my things in a new space! (Even if the new space is this broken down cottage with pepto bismal paint and eroded carpet and fungus like smell that reminds one of your grandmother's basement) I think I can make this place really beautiful. Just a little TLC is all it well take. Okay, maybe a lot of TLC.

At night, just before sunset, the storm came. I saw it out to sea, grey cloudy monster of a thing coming straight for me. At first I enjoyed the sound of the rain pounding down on the roof. Then I realized that the previous caretakers had informed me of leaks so I was then sent scurrying all about the house placing bowls and pans underneath every drip drip.

I felt very successful at handling my first rain storm. I walked by the plants a little taller in my step. They acted nonchalant but I could tell they were impressed. I sat on the bed for the rest of the night taking pictures of the beautiful glimmering drops splashing into the silver bowls, listening to the howling of the wind outside and the palm trees knocking on wood.

Day One

Day One:

So here I am on small nine-seater propeller plane all by myself, except for the captain, of course, who just so happens to be a friend of a friend and is about to give me an all exclusive ride of my life.

As the plane reaches cruising altitude he nods to the co-pilot chair upfront and asks "You wanna sit up front?" Do I ever!

I crawl up into the small compartment where I do my best to not touch anything out of fear that I might, with one wrong move, send us hurdling to our death.
After I get buckled in the Captain, or as I now call him "my new best-friend," shoots me a smile and says "You wanna see something cool?" and he swoops the plane down toward the sea with amazing force that I almost pea my pants. Descending motion ceases, my pea safely stored, stomach compartment a little worse for wear but all worth the view as we fly by the tallest sea cliffs in the world; the north shore of Molokai. Waterfalls at eye level cascade down the green rocky faces, looking magical and otherworldly as well as forceful and foreboding.

We pass by an outcropping of mountain where he points behind to a small house buried within the cliffs. "Separatist's" he informs me "There are no roads to their house. Everything has to come in by boat or helicopter. They mainly life off the land with as little contact with outsiders as possible."

Talk about seclusion, I think to myself. Now that is really living at the edge of the earth. I wonder who they are. What do they eat? Do they make helicopter trips to Costco to stock up on toilet paper and soy milk or do they grow everything there? Can they offer me tips on my future garden endeavors or would they rather kill me?

As I muse on my own future relationships with the islands inhabitants we go over Kalauapapa or better known as The Colony. A beautiful peninsula with a painful history. This is where we forcibly placed islanders with Hansen's Disease, more commonly known as Leprosy, and in the process tore apart lovers, families and generations. Some of the patient's still live there. I get goose bumps as we fly over this small world that held so much suffering.

We rise up and up and curve around to the west coast of Molokai. I see the long 3 mile stretch of Papahaku beach, (the longest beach in all of Hawaii) and I strain my eyes to see my future residence buried in the Kiawe (Key-ah-vay) trees near the south end of the coast. I am delighted to think that I will once again have the beach to the west of me. Living on the north side of Maui I could never quite convince myself that the beach was on the North and I would continue to look for sunsets in vain. Too many years of being a west coast mainlander is hard to shake. Relieved I am to have the ocean, the sand and the sunsets safely restored to their proper orientation.

As I get off the plane I thank my pilot friend profusely. I could never imagine a better welcome to my new home. An older couple stop me and ask if I am here for a visit. "I just moved here," I said realizing the impact of that statement. They mumble something about it being a "nice place" as they eye me curiously.

At the rental car kiosk I wanted to sing at the top of my lungs "I have arrived!!!" but I decided it wouldn't be the best first impression. I have full understanding that my presence on this island is not met with my same amount of enthusiasm. We have all seen the bumper stickers; "Welcome to Hawaii, NOW GO HOME!" On Molokai they seem to be more common than not. I don't take it personal but I will not ignore it either. I decide it is best to stay as invisible as I can for the next few months and hope that when they all start to notice my presence it will be like noticing a freckle on your hand that you are kinda used to. "Hey when did that get there?"

They brought me out one red car. It might as well have said "I am a Haole Tourist" in bright neon lights. But it drove fast and smooth so I wasn't complaining. I made my way into town. The little streets that make Kauanakakai are barren, a few shops and a lot of empty space. At first it appears like some tidal wave has just washed everything away but when you stop and take another look things start to unfurl like the "Natural Foods" store at the end of the block, the "Molokai Fish and Dive" or my favorite "Molokai Wine and Spirits." Many folks will leave this town not able to see any of the beauty that it holds and I think that’s how the locals want to keep it.

This is the thing about Molokai; it is as if the island and its inhabitants have weaved a magical spell on the place to make it appear like it is falling apart in order to avoid big developers and mass tourists coming in and reaking havoc. It is a secret place. It holds its beauty in strange and hard to get places. It keeps itself shrouded in a veil so that only those with the right eyes can see what it has to offer.

When I look at Molokai I can't help but see all the pot holes and the broken down hotels and the vacant store fronts. I can't help but hear the loss of dreams and hopes of so many who had plans to make Molokai the next Maui, of those who wanted to share the secret beauty with the rest of the world. But I can't help but feel the energy in the land; the excitement of the rocks, the sand and the Kiawe trees as they grow across the abandoned golf courses and scour the trails with thick thorns, joyous in their reconnection with the land and in their ability to take back what is theirs.

With my car loaded up with groceries I drive the main road back west to my new home. Everything I see amazes me; the trailer with animal paintings on it that hosts a humane society, an agricultural co-op, a papaya farm. Things become more interesting to you when you realize you live there.

And I do… live here now.
I live on Molokai.
How did this happen?
How did I come to live in this tropical paradise?
And how will I survive? I know no one and know less about how to care for a vacation home and tropical garden not to mention a papaya farm of my own.

Driving down the driveway to Miller Molokai (the home I will now be caretaking) the green foliage envelopes me. Standing under the Bee Still trees and the boughanviella I begin to get the feeling that the plants are threatening me to take a chance.

Oh strange place, where the wild things are.
Will I tame you or am I the one to be tamed?

Now a new adventure begins.

Do to the mysterious nature of the universe our heroine has found herself relocated onto the island of Molokai. Is it possible that she is slowly creeping herself westward into the pacific? How far will she go? What is she searching for? What will she find?

Molokai, part third world, part paradise, part ghost town.

Molokai… the last chance, the last ditch effort at making sense of this world, the last dance before she settles down?

Molokai… a land as mysterious, as frightful, as bright and energetic as life itself.

Then there is the isolation.

Alone, she will be totally alone. Nothing but a cat, a centipede and a few papaya plants. Will she grow mad or will Molokai be just about the perfect place for our girl to step into the mystery?