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.